Date: Sun, 15 Jun 1997
From: Ecksphile@aol.com

FAITH (2/2)
by Suzanne Bickerstaffe
Ecksphile@aol.com
May 30, 1997

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One

Chapter Four, Part B

They thanked Granger for his time and began walking over
the rubble and broken asphalt to the end of the block of brick
buildings. "I got a feeling about this one, Scully," Mulder said
tensely. "I think this might be our guy."

"True, he matches the profile very closely, Mulder, but
so do a lot of the other suspects. At this point, there's no
evidence to show he has a greater chance of being the man
we're looking for than anyone else."

"I know, but I have this feeling...." He pulled the
celphone from his pocket and began dialling. "Mike? ...Yeah,
it's Mulder. How are you guys doing?.... So no one has turned
up anything yet?... Okay. Scully and I are checking out a
possible.... No, this one looks better than most.... No way, not
yet, Mike! I don't want fifty cars rushing in here and scaring him
off. We haven't even talked to him yet, it's just a feeling I
have.... Yeah, I know they have a pretty good track record, but I
don't want to blow this by someone getting overanxious and
doing something stupid. All we'd need is for Howard to get wind
of this and come charging in on his white horse...." Mulder
laughed. "Yeah, I agree, it would be hard to tell.... Look, give
us until around two. We'll check back with you. We should
have enough by then to decide one way or the other about an
arrest....Okay...Bye, Mike. Happy hunting." He slid the phone
back in his pocket.

"Shit!" She turned her ankle for the fourth time on the
uneven, debris-strewn ground. "Remind me not to wear heels
on construction sites again, will you, Mulder?"

"Hey, Scully, don't wear - "

"Shut up, Mulder." They walked the last hundred feet in
amused silence.

"There's no indication that he's armed," he said quietly
at the entrance to the building. "Mr. Gatling?," he called. "Mr.
Granger said we could talk to you.... Mr. Gatling?" He
shrugged. "He's probably not here, but we'll have to check it
out."

After traversing the pitted ground, she initially entered
the old meat packing plant with relief, but it soon faded. "God,
this place is terrible." It smelled of grime, oil, and old blood.
The narrow strip of windows, set high in the right-hand wall and
now missing all the glass, allowed in only small amounts of
dusty light. Meat hooks hung from the ceiling, and tracks were
set into both the ceiling and the floor, making walking as
hazardous as it had been outside. Machines, too large to be
removed and dormant for years, loomed over them like huge
threatening monoliths.

"It's not the country club," admitted Mulder. "Let's split
up - we can cover more ground."

Distractedly, she nodded. She set out, sweeping the
right side of the expanse, her hand on her weapon. Something
about this place gave her the shivers. Maybe it was the purpose
of the place, an abatoir in a very real sense. Or maybe it was
the sensation of claustrophobia induced by the darkness and the
towering steel and iron machines. The building felt profane, like
it contained the ghosts of terrible memories - She smiled
humorlessly to herself. Thank God her partner couldn't tell what
she was thinking. She whirled in the direction of a crash.
"Mulder?"

"I'm all right," he called, his voice echoing in the
cavernous building. "The foreman was right, Scully. Watch
yourself. Wish we had brought the flashlights."

You and me both, she thought grimly. She continued
along the right-hand wall, nearly coming to grief herself several
times. Her partner's voice called out periodically, after a loud
thump or crash had startled her. His way seemed punctuated
with mishaps on a fairly regular basis. A few minutes later, she
heard another thud. She kept walking, almost at the back wall
of the plant now. She should be meeting Mulder any time....

It was then she realized that he hadn't called out to
reassure her after the last noise. "Mulder?" There was no
response. Her voice edged with anxiety now, she called out
again. "Mulder? Are you all right?" The echo of her own voice
taunted her. She drew her weapon and hurried over in the
direction from which the sound had come.

In the darkest section of the building, an isolated shaft of
weak light bathed a small section of the floor, throwing
illumination on the body of her partner. He wasn't moving.
"God, Mulder!" She rushed over to where he lay, and suddenly
stopped short. A figure appeared from out of the shadows.

"Stop right there, miss. I ain't got no quarrel with you.
But I have his gun, and I'll blow his head off if you don't stay
where you are and slide your gun over to me, real easy-like."

"Are you James Gatling?"

"That's me." He pointed the gun at Mulder's head. "Do
what I toldja. Now."

Slowly, she bent down and laid her weapon on the floor.

"That's right. Kick it on over to me."

With a sinking feeling, she did as he instructed. On the
floor, Mulder began to stir.

"Okay, FBI guy. Stand up but do it slow."

Mulder complied with a groan. Standing slowly was not
a problem - fast would have been out of the question. A rivulet
of blood dripped from a gash on his head as he swayed on his
feet.

"All right now. Miss, you just go through his jacket
pockets, take everything out."

With a withering glance, she pulled Mulder's celphone
out and handed it to Gatling, along with his keys and his wallet.

"Hey, I allus wanted to get me one of these things!" He
grabbed the celphone and experimentally began punching
buttons, inordinately pleased with his new toy. "No, keep the
wallet, this ain't no hold-up. I'll take those carkeys, though."

Scully took the opportunity to study him more closely.
As his records had said, he was of medium height and build,
with nothing to distinguish him from countless others. He was
dressed in filthy jeans and a tattered flannel shirt over a T-shirt.
His moustache - newly grown since the last addition to his
record - was stained and ragged, and a three-day stubble of
beard covered his face. She turned her attention to her partner.
"You okay, Mulder?"

"Outside of a huge headache and a case of terminal
stupidity, just fine," he murmured dryly. "You want to try to talk
us out of this mess?"

"Mr. Gatling, I'd advise you to put down the weapon and
come with us," Scully said evenly. "All we want to do is ask you
a few questions. Holding us like this will get you into very
serious trouble. Before things get out of hand, put the gun
down."

"Well, now believe me, I'd like to. But fact of the matter
is, I just can't let y'all stop me."

Scully's pulse raced. So they *had* managed to
stumble on the firebomber.

"Now - you two just walk over to that big door, there.
That's it, nice and easy. Good. Now open it and go on inside."

With an effort, Mulder pulled the huge steel door and it
opened jerkily on creaking hinges. The air inside was stale and
it stank. They hesitated.

"Go on, get in there. Then sit on the floor, back to
back."

Reluctantly, they did as he instructed.

"You - Jew-boy. Put your arms behind your back."

Scully felt him stiffen, but with the gun aimed at her
head, he obeyed. They heard a tearing sound in the nearly total
dark. Seconds later, Mulder felt his wrists being tightly wrapped
with duct tape and Gatling's breath hot on the back of his neck.

"Now you, little lady, or the Jew-boy gets messed up.
That's right." With their wrists taped, he felt safe enough to put
down the gun to tape their ankles. Then he taped their arms
together at the wrists and elbows.

"There. I reckon that'll hold ya." He stepped back to
admire his handiwork.

Scully looked around as her eyes became adjusted to
the poor light. The walls were steel, even the ceiling was metal.
She saw more meat hooks set into the ceiling, and shelves
along the side of the walls. She felt the rise of panic. "Look, Mr.
Gatling - "

"Shit, don't call me that. That was my daddy. Call me
Jim-Bob."

"All right - Jim-Bob. You can't hope to get away with
this. Consider your actions very carefully. There's still time to let
us go, and we can forget about all this."

"Sorry, can't do that. I'm on a mission from God, and
He's waited too long already."

Mulder chimed in. "My partner's right, Jim-Bob. The
FBI knows we're here, and they know that we came to find you.
They'll - " He broke off with a cry of pain, as Gatling's foot
connected sharply with his ribs. Unbalanced by the momentum
of the kick, the two agents fell heavily onto their sides. They
struggled to get themselves upright, nursing bumped heads.

"When I want to hear from you, you nigger-loving son of
a bitch, I'll tell you," Gatling growled. "I have my orders from
God Almighty. Satan's soldiers must die, and that's what I'm
gonna do. I'm gonna do what He tells me to do."

"God doesn't want you to do this, Jim-Bob," said Scully
quietly.

He squatted on his heels, closer to her than she wanted.
She had to force herself not to shrink away from his bad breath,
his crazed eyes. "Well, if He doesn't, He can tell me Hisself,"
Gatling said reasonably. "See, I been workin' on this problem
for a while, and I asked God's advice. Then this idea - it just
came to me. Outta the blue. It was like a miracle, I tell ya." He
stood up and began moving toward the big steel door. "God put
this idea in my head, and no one but God is gonna get it out."

Scully could hear Mulder draw in a breath to speak, and
urgently nudged him in the back. Obviously, Jim-Bob had taken
an instant dislike to her partner, and she didn't want him to take
any more punishment than he already had. She broke in before
he could open his mouth. "What you're doing is against the law,
Jim-Bob."

He smiled. "I'm obeyin' a higher law."

"When - not if, but when - you're caught, it will go much
harder on you if you kill us," she said evenly.

"Hell, I ain't gonna kill you! All I'm doin' is keeping you
on ice for a while." He chortled. "On ice, get it? This here's a
refrigerator and I'm keepin' you on ice!" His smile faded.
"Anyway, I gotta go do God's work."

He turned around at the entrance to the refrigeration
unit. "Don't bother to yell - no one would ever hear you. I'd
advise y'all to stay nice and still. That way your air will last a
little longer." Admiringly, Jim-Bob ran a hand down the door.
"Yup, best refrigeration unit made, forty years ago. Air-tight."
He looked down at the two agents. "No air - not a nice way to
go, is it? Aw, don't worry about it none. You might even have
enough air left to enjoy the explosion."

"Explosion?" echoed Mulder. "You're going to blow up
this building?"

Gatling looked at Mulder with loathing. "I told you to shut
your fuckin' trap. Your kind ain't no better'n Satan's boys." He
focused on Scully and his tone softened. "Shit, I ain't gonna
blow up this building...."

Her heart slowed its pounding for a moment.

"...Naw, *I* ain't gonna do it - the construction
company's gonna. They wouldn't let me set the charges. Think
I can't do it right. Guess I showed them, huh? Yup, high noon
tomorrow there's gonna be one of the biggest spectacles there's
been 'round here for a long while. These buildings are comin'
down. They're even filming it - it's gonna be in a big Hollywood
movie. I'm sure lookin' forward to seein' it."

He began to push the door closed. "Y'all take care now.
I have my work to do. Important work - God's work. And just
remember, this is God's just punishment. This is what y'all get
for sidin' with Satan's soldiers."

The huge door closed. The darkness was complete.

End of Chapter Four

FAITH 5/9
by Suzanne Bickerstaffe
Ecksphile@aol.com
May 30, 1997

Chapter Five

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One

Astor Sausage plant
Atlanta
Friday, March 14
12:30 PM

"Scully, can you get your hand into my left pants'
pocket?"

"If you're coming on to me, Mulder, you picked a really
lousy time."

Though she couldn't see it, trussed up to him back to
back in the dark, he grinned. "I'm not coming on to you - at the
moment. I have a Swiss Army knife in my pocket. If you can
reach it, maybe we can cut the tape."

She squirmed. "If - if we can somehow.... Wait a
second. Turn yourself as far to the left as you can, and I'll go to
the right." They shifted as well as they could under the
circumstances, now more side by side than back to back, their
arms straining, feeling like they were being slowly wrenched
from their sockets. "Okay...move your arms to the left, just a
little.... A little more....

"Agh - that's as far as I can go."

"It might be enough... Hold on." Scully strained, her
fingers reaching for the cloth of his pocket lining. She knew she
couldn't extend into his pocket far enough to grab the knife. But
if she could turn the pocket inside out... spill the knife onto the
ground and pick it up from there.... Sweat poured down her
face. "It's - it's coming, I think." Her fingers picked at the cloth,
trying to maintain a steady traction. Each time they slipped, the
cloth would slide pack into place and she would doggedly start
over. It took close to half an hour, by which time they were both
trembling and sweaty from exertion and pain, but finally the
knife tumbled to the cement floor of the refrigeration unit. "Got
it!"

They returned to the back to back position to take the
strain off their arms and spent, rested against each other.

"Catch your breath, Scully. We have lots of time."

She smiled grimly. "Depends on your point of view, I
guess. God, my arms are shaking so much I'm not sure I can
get the knife open."

"You rest. Let me try."

She felt her partner's shoulders and arms move as he
groped between them for the knife, barely biting back a gasp
when his fingers brushed her bottom.

"Oops...sorry, Scully."

"No problem," she managed to reply, glad that he could
not see the color flaming her cheeks.

"Okay. Got it." His nails tried to catch the grooves in
the knife to pull a blade out. After some time, he gave a grunt
of satisfaction, then said, "Scully, be careful, but try to feel
around - can you tell what thingy I pulled out?"

Cautiously, she extended her fingers, feeling the warmth
of his hands, finally touching the Swiss Army knife. "I don't think
a corkscrew is quite what the occasion calls for, unfortunately,
Mulder. Better keep it out - if you put it back you might end up
wasting a lot of time pulling it out again."

He sighed. "Good thinking. All right. Let's see what
else I can come up with. With my luck, it will be the handy nail
file." He felt for another groove and began to pluck at it. The
repeated click of the tool snapping back frustrated them both to
the screaming point and he gouged his hands twice on the
corkscrew, but finally a blade was pulled out and locked into
position. He set the knife down carefully between them. "Okay.
My turn for a rest."

"Try to keep your breathing slow and shallow if you can,
Mulder. Our oxygen will last longer." Scully felt him nod. The
ache subsiding somewhat in her arms, she picked up the knife
and maneuvered it into position, the sharp edge of the blade
resting against the duct tape that bound them. "Don't move,"
she ordered. She began sawing at the tape, getting little force
behind the motion because of their awkward positions. The
knife slipped and she heard a quick intake of breath from her
partner.

"Oh God, Mulder. Did I cut you?"

"It's okay," he said calmly. "Keep at it."

She dropped the knife and wiped her sweating hands on
her suit. Taking a deep breath, she picked it up and began
sawing at the tape once more.

After a while, he grunted. "I think it's working, there's a
little more leeway. Keep going."

Ten minutes later, the knife suddenly cut through the
remaining tape. Before she could stop its forward motion, the
blade sliced into her partner's wrist, forcing a hoarse cry from
him. "Shit! Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry!"

" 'An equitable exchange', as Mr. Spock would say.
Don't worry about it - you did great." With a twist, he freed his
wrists of the tape. His lower arms now able to move, he forced
them outwards as hard as he could, shaking with the effort,
trying to free his elbows of the tape. Finally, the tape gave with
a snap, and the upper part of his body was free. "Hold on,
Scully. Let me cut the tape around my ankles and then I'll cut
you loose." His wrists were bleeding freely from the numerous
slashes and gouges and his hands were slippery with blood.
With that sort of liability and the darkness in their prison, he
wanted to be in the best position possible to cut her bonds so he
wouldn't accidentally cut her.

Mulder stood unsteadily, the pounding in his head
making him dizzy and nauseous. When he had his equilibirium,
he stretched his cramping muscles, then knelt on one knee
behind his partner. "Just a second." He wiped his gory hands
on his pants and gripped the knife firmly. Feeling for the tape
binding her wrists, he carefully placed the blade against it and
pressed downward. In seconds, the tape was off and he was
helping her to her feet.

"God, it's pitch black in here. I want to take a look at
your wrist, but I can't see anything."

"It'll be all right, Dr. Scully. Right now we have to
explore ways of getting the hell out of here."

"Mulder, you might be bleeding. Besides, it could get
infected."

"It won't matter if it gets infected if we're still in here at
fireworks time." With their arms outstretched in front of them,
they inched their way in the blackness to where they thought the
door should be. At last their hands touched smooth, cold steel.

"Feel around for edges or a handle," Scully said, moving
carefully to her left. Nearby she heard the clang of metal.

"Fuck! I think it's a wall, Scully - unless the door has
shelves sticking out of it."

"Are you all right?"

"Now my head hurts in three places instead of two, but
yeah, I'm okay. Keep moving to the left, we'll come to it
eventually."

Moments later, she said excitedly, "I feel a seam!"

"Okay, now we're in business. Go way to your left,
Scully. I'm going to see if I can force the door open." Keeping
his fingers on the top frame, he moved to the left until he could
feel the angle of the corner of the door, and let his fingers follow
the groove downward. "No handle, but I guess I really didn't
expect one. Okay, keep clear." He took a couple of careful
paces back, then threw his shoulder against the door. It didn't
budge. Again he tried, this time with the other shoulder, and
then his foot. Finally, leaning against the door, he panted, "It's
no good, Scully - it's like trying to shove my way through
concrete."

"Don't try again, Mulder. You'll only hurt yourself."

"Too late." He sighed, frustrated.

"Well, it's back to Plan B," she said.

"Which was...?"

"I guess we'll have to think of one. Meanwhile, let's
conserve our energy and the oxygen in here."

She reached out for him and grabbed his arm. They
held hands as they explored their steel prison, less for the
emotional comfort it provided than for the purely practical
reason that it prevented them from bumping into each other in
the impenetrable dark. She felt, between their palms, the
insistent ooze of something warm and sticky.

"You're bleeding, aren't you?"

"It's slowing down."

"I'm sorry, G-man."

"It wasn't all you. I got myself a couple of times."

"Let's sit down, let me see what I can do with it."

"In a minute. I want to explore our new home first. I
guess we should be thankful that this thing isn't plugged in,
huh?"

They paced the walls, estimating that the refrigeration
unit was approximately fifteen feet by eight. In their travels, they
found an old mop, an empty five gallon paint can, a roll of
butcher paper and other items, mostly by tripping over them or
banging into them. It became clear that there was no way out,
and nothing that could help them break out. They surrendered
to the inevitable and sat down next to each other, leaning
against a wall for support. Scully shrugged out of her suit jacket
and began to tear out the lining.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to stop that bleeding and cover up those gashes.
I've never had to do it by Braille before, but there's a first time
for anything, I guess. I'm going to use my jacket lining to bind
up your hand and wrist. Come here, give me your hand."

"Getting into bondage, are we, Scully?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Actually, now that you mention it...."

She laughed. "In your dreams, Mulder."

"How'd you guess?" he said in mock-surprise.

She smiled and shook her head. "There. That'll have to
do. I just hope I covered them all." She set his newly bandged
hand back in his lap and patted it.

"Awkward of them, not to have left any food or water,"
Mulder murmured.

"Or a bathroom," agreed his partner.

"Necessity is the mother of invention, Scully. I expect
that the paint can may be pressed into use in the not too distant
future."

"That takes care of the bathroom problem. Doesn't do
much for the food or water shortage - or oxygen, for that matter.
But you don't seem overly worried," she said, intrigued.

She felt him shrug. "Not much point, is there?" He was
silent for a while. "Anyway, I told Mike we'd call in by two.
Maybe he'll send in the troops when we miss our call-in."

Her tone was not hopeful. "I'd be more reassured if
Mike didn't know you so well. You don't exactly have a stellar
track record when it comes to checking in punctually. Mike
knows that. Someone else might get alarmed. Mike will think
it's just you being you."

"My sins come back to haunt me - again," he murmured
reflectively. "Well, when he doesn't hear from us by the end of
the day, he'll do something. It just postpones things a few
hours."

"So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know. Play Twenty Questions? Spin the
Bottle?"

She smiled in the darkness. "No bottle."

"Shit. Just my luck. Look, we're still in the debit column
as far as rest goes. Why don't you try to get some sleep? It'll
help conserve our oxygen, too. Stretch out, rest your head in my
lap and take a nap."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay awake for a while. Maybe a work crew will come
into this building. There's not much chance I'll hear them, but if I
do, I'll start yelling. They might hear me. We might get lucky."

"Yeah." She stretched out on the hard concrete of the
floor and lay her head on his thigh. "It's about time we had
some good luck for a change."

- - - - -

FBI Headquarters
Friday, March 14
4:30 PM

Mike paced the conference room. He had already
ordered the receptionist, on pain of death, to put Mulder's call
straight through to him as soon as it came in. That was two
hours ago, and he still hadn't heard from his friend. The other
teams were all convening at headquarters, having checked their
lists of suspects and come up empty. Head bowed and lost in
thought, he completed circuit after circuit around the huge oak
table.

"What's up, Mike?"

His head came up as he briefly noted his partner's
arrival, then he resumed his pacing. "Oh, Alvin. Nothin'. Just
gettin' a bad feeling about Mulder and Scully."

The younger black man poured himself a cup of coffee
and took a seat at the table. "Well, you said he was kinda...
unconventional."

"I know. But unconventional or not, we should have
heard somethin' by now. And the fact that everyone else is
strikin' out makes me think that Mulder mighta found our guy - or
our guy mighta found him."

Alvin put down his mug and stood. "What can I do?"

Mike took a deep breath and let it out forcefully. "Okay.
I might be panickin' here when I don't have to, but I'd rather
have Mulder razz me about this for the next thirty years or so
than stand around doin' nothin' when he might be in trouble."
Start goin' over the names on his list. Judgin' by when he called
me, the first couple probably checked out clean, but you never
know. Get Davis and Giometti to help you. See if you can get
in touch with the suspects, and get an idea when they talked to
Mulder and Scully. We'll see if we can track them down."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Call their boss in Washington and report that Mulder
and Scully are missing. And Alvin - "

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

- - - - -

Astor Sausage plant
6:30 PM

"Okay, your turn. Favorite food?

"Um, it's a tossup - my mother's pot roast, or her
homemade minestrone soup."

"Not any of your own cooking? Scully, you're a good
cook!"

She shrugged. "I've never had a lot of time to put into it.
And Mom always preferred to have the kitchen to herself. With
four of us kids around, it's not hard to see why. Okay. My
question for you.... If you could live in any other time in history,
what would it be?"

They had been playing the game for about an hour. It
had started as a way to relieve the boredom, asking each other
both trivial and thought-provoking questions, listening intently to
the answers. But it soon became more than that - a fascinating
window into the other's soul, opening up areas that, for all the
years they had been together, had never been viewed. For all
of that, neither had yet asked the questions they really wanted
to. The questions they were afraid to ask, the answers they
were afraid to utter, or to hear.

"Hmm. I don't know," Mulder said reflectively. "Maybe
the Age of Exploration. Discovering new worlds. Seeing if there
really *were* dragons out there, if the world really was flat. Not
when it got into the commercial end of things, or going in and
wiping out existing indigenous civilizations. Not those parts.
Just the actual voyage of discovery itself. That would have
been incredible. Or, of course, I would have liked being in
Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. How about you?"

"Oh, it's hard to choose. It would have been nice to be
hanging around the courts of the Medici during the Renaissance,
that would have been interesting." Her voice took on a soft,
solemn quality. "And I wish I had been at the wedding at Cana -
to see the miracle there." She was silent for a little while, then
she suddenly asked, "Mulder, are you Jewish?"

The question was obviously completely unexpected. He
hesitated, then said, "Why do you ask that?" His tone was
cautious, reserved.

"The way you reacted when Gatling called you Jew-
boy."

"I didn't think I reacted."

"You got stiff as a board, Mulder. Maybe no one else
would have noticed it, but I did. Besides, you're begging the
question. Unless you don't want to answer it, which is okay.
Just tell me to mind my own business and there'll be no hard
feelings. I'll think of something else to ask you."

"No, it's all right." His voice was soft, serious, but she
was glad to note it had lost the caution that was there before.
"My mother's family was Jewish. According to her, I'm the
spitting image of one of her uncles, when he was younger.
Never met the guy, so I couldn't tell you."

"Were you brought up Jewish?"

He laughed then, a short, humorless laugh. "No. Most
emphatically, no. I guess Dad loved Mom, but not her religion.
He suffered from the same prejudices as his very Yankee
family, and even a lot of the people in the State Department.
He was always a terribly ambitious man. Back when he was
starting out, there was still a lot of discrimination and his
marriage to a Jew could have hurt his career. He wanted to put
as much distance between us and Judaism as humanly possible.
So all of us were trotted out to the Methodist church whenever
he was around. He felt it was important for us to go make a
public show of our Christianity," he finished bitterly.

"Did you ever go to a synagogue?"

"In case you never noticed, Martha's Vineyard is not
exactly Little Jerusalem," he said dryly. "It's not like we were
overwhelmed with synagogues down there. But yeah, when Dad
was away and Mom would take us to visit her family in
Brookline, I went. Of course, I was sworn to secrecy. If Dad had
ever found out, there would have been... trouble." His voice fell
slightly on the final word, ironically emphasizing it more.

She left him that space, knowing that was an area that
she dare not ask about. Any information about the abuse he
had suffered as a child was surrendered sparingly, and only at
his instigation. "So you never considered yourself Jewish?"

He shook his head, then realized she wouldn't be able to
see it. "I wasn't *allowed* to consider myself Jewish. That's why
it was particularly ironic that I was on the receiving end of anti-
Semitic prejudice. I guess that's... that's where the reaction to
'Jew-boy' comes from. You know how kids are, especially kids
back then, brought up to hate anyone different from themselves,
or whom they even perceived as different. So I got beaten up a
few times. I remember I didn't dare tell my Dad. I didn't know
which would make him angrier - the fact that I had let myself get
beaten up by the neighborhood Nazis, or the reason why I was
getting beaten up, that I had been mistaken for a Jew. It was a
no-win situation, to say the least," he continued dryly. "Then, by
the time I was old enough to make those sorts of decisions for
myself, what with one thing and another, I had kind of decided to
pass on religion altogether. But...." He was quiet for several
moments.

Scully's heart ached for the small boy who had no one to
turn to after being brutalized. What kind of a father.... She
shook her head. She *knew* what kind of a father he had had.
"But...?" she prompted. She knew Mulder felt acutely
uncomfortable discussing this, but sensed he wanted to tell her,
wanted to share it.

"I - I guess I always kind of missed it. Not from a
religious standpoint - I haven't changed my mind about that - but
more from a cultural point of view. The sense of belonging to
something. When we were on that case in New York City, the
hate crimes case involving the Hassidic Jews...." She felt him
shake his head. He spoke softly, almost to himself. "I don't
know, I had the weirdest feelings when we were up there, among
those people. When that scholar at the archives assumed I
could read Hebrew and I had to tell him I couldn't... I felt almost
embarrassed, Scully. Like I had turned my back on something
important, something intrinsic, something that should have been
a part of me, but wasn't."

"You can do something about that, you know," she
replied practically. "You always can study it now. I don't know
anyone with a better mind than yours, Mulder."

"I've thought about it. I just don't know if it's fair to listen
to the pitch if I have no intention of buying the cow."

"Huh?"

"I'm interested in learning more, Scully, but not
necessarily incorporating the beliefs. The question is, can
someone study religion and not be religious? Is it possible to
develop a cultural appreciation for a religious faith, without
*having* any faith?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "You have faith,
Mulder."

He seemed genuinely surprised by her statement. "Me?
No, I don't."

"Sure you do."

"Well, I have faith in you, Scully. But that's about it."

She curled her arm around his. "And you have faith in
yourself...."

"Yeah - but it's real shaky," he said, only half-kidding.

She squeezed his arm for a second and then relaxed. "I
think it's possible for you to study your religious background in
an objective way. But you might find out you have more faith
than you think."

"That would be a Revelation."

"Bad joke, Mulder."

"No, I - I've always envied people like you, and Mike, for
your religious faith. I wish I could believe in something so
powerful that strongly. But I just can't bring myself to do it.
Maybe it has a lot to do with the way my father used religion.
Maybe it's the way religion has been used to validate anything
from the Crusades to the Inquisition to the troubles in Northern
Ireland. Conversions at swordpoint of happy pagans into guilt-
ridden Christians. An excuse to shove one viewpoint down
people's throats by proclaiming that God is in your corner, and
only your corner. Somewhere along the line, organized religion
just seems to have missed the point."

Scully shrugged. "It's like statistics, Mulder. You can
make them say anything you want them to say. Religion is a
powerful force, and there will always be those unscrupulous
enough to use it for their own ends. It has less to do with faith
than in adherence to a particular faith, or those that purportedly
represent it. I see those two things as being very different."

"But you're Catholic, right?" he asked, puzzled. "From
what you're saying, it sounds like - "

"I haven't been a practicing Catholic for some time,
Mulder," she admitted. "Yeah, I was brought up Catholic, and
that's an upbringing that's hard to get away from. That was my
first major rift with my family. My parents hit the roof. Melissa
was always a 'happy pagan' at heart, which never seemed to
bother them. But when I came home from college and blithely
announced I would no longer be accompanying them to Mass,
the shit hit the fan, bigtime."

"So why did you leave the Church? If you don't mind
my asking?"

"No, I don't mind. I don't know who left whom. All of a
sudden, I just realized what I believed and the teachings of the
Church differed significantly in some pretty fundamental areas.
A lot of what I was taught as a kid remains. Just not enough for
me to consider myself a Catholic - or for the Church to consider
me one either, for that matter," she finished dryly. "Do you want
to get some rest now?"

"What did you once tell me, Scully - that I 'keep
unfolding like a flower'? Yeah, I guess I'll take a nap. All this
deep conversation wore me out," he said. He cautiously moved
to stretch out his long legs, and Scully cradled his head in her
lap. "This is nice. We need to do this more often, Scully."

"Thanks, Mulder, but I'd prefer not to be locked in any
refrigerators again for a while."

He chuckled again. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," she said softly. "And I agree. Get some sleep,
Mulder."

" 'Night, Scully."

She combed her fingers through his hair until she felt his
breathing become even.

- - - - -

FBI Headquarters
Atlanta
Friday March 14
9:45 PM

Skinner stretched his long legs out in front of him as he
leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. "So what steps have
you taken so far?"

Mike sighed. "We've been to all the places that were on
their list. We talked to the first two suspects they interviewed,
and everything seemed all right. From the time he called in, I
would estimate that it was the third or fourth suspect they were
interested in, anyway, so I take it he had ruled out the first two."

"He might have been wrong."

"He might have," agreed Mike, "which is why we had to
check it out. But I think he was right. Then, by the time we got
to the third address - a construction site where the suspect
worked - it was dark and everyone had gone home for the night.
We checked out the other two that we had home addresses for,
and they claim never to have seen Mulder and Scully."

"Which might be true and might not." Skinner frowned.
"Any gut feelings?"

"One of the guys - Number Five on the Hit Parade -
seemed genuine. The other one, Number Four, would lie just
for the hell of it, just for the fun of watchin' us chase our tails.
He's bein' watched."

"And the third suspect?"

"We never had a reliable home address for him. Seems
he moves around a lot. We're tryin' to track him down now. He
looks like the best shot. A James Gatling. There's an APB out
on him."

"Their car?"

"An APB is out, but no one's reported anything yet."
Mike rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with
his hands.

Skinner's eyes narrowed as he observed Agent Thomas.
>From what the agent had said minutes after they met, he had
deduced that Mike and Mulder had known each other for some
time. Interesting, he thought. Usually the better people got to
know Mulder, the more difficult and crazy they thought he was.
He had assumed that he and Scully were the only ones who
actually liked and respected the man for himself. But apparently
so did Thomas. He certainly appeared shaken by Mulder and
Scully's disappearance. "You've done everything you could,
Thomas. Something will turn up, or we'll get out there and turn it
up ourselves."

Mike sat up. "You sound like you've been through this all
before, sir."

There was no smile, but the brown eyes twinkled.
"Once or twice. Have you had anything to eat lately, Thomas?"

"Not lately, sir."

"Let's go out and get something. You can tell me how
you met Mulder while we eat. Then we'll come back here and
work out a plan."

"But - "

"It's likely to be a long night, and maybe a long day
tomorrow, Agent Thomas. You won't be doing Mulder any good
by starving yourself. Let's go."

End of Chapter Five

FAITH 6/9
by Suzanne Bickerstaffe
Ecksphile@aol.com
May 30, 1997

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One

Chapter Six

Atlanta
Friday, March 14
10:15 P.M.

Skinner took a long swallow of his beer. They had
walked down Broad Street to the little tavern, the raw, damp air
temporarily chasing the fatigue from their bodies and minds.
Now, the jukebox over in the distant corner blared an upbeat
country song, contrasting with their tension and dread. Skinner
found himself in the unfamiliar role of social director, trying to
lighten the mood. "So tell me how you and Mulder met."

Mike grinned softly in reminiscence. "He came down
here on a case. It must have been, oh, seven years ago or so.
He was in Violent Crimes at the time. We had had a rash of
murders down here that no one in the Atlanta Police Department
seemed to be able to get a handle on. At the time, it wasn't
known they were connected - we had different methods of death,
victims of different age, sex, race. We just thought we had a
rash of homicides goin' on for unknown reasons. Then the APD
asked for our help on one of the murders. The victim was from
Atlanta but his body turned up across the Tennessee line, so to
some people it looked like it might have been kidnappin', and
therefore a Federal crime. The APD was takin' a lot of heat at
the time for the miserable solve rate on these cases. Personally,
I think it was just an excuse to claim Federal jurisdiction and
dump it on us."

Skinner's lips curled in a knowing smile. "That's the
usual drill - they act like the Bureau is interfering, but are only
too happy to be rid of it."

Nodding, Mike continued. "We were gettin' involved
pretty late in the game - the APD had had the case for somethin'
like three weeks, so the ground was pretty cold. Truthfully, we
weren't able to do much with it ourselves. Anyway, the Bureau
Chief at the time, Norm Pelletier - "

"Norman Pelletier? I know him, he's a good man. He's
in Washington now."

"I know," Mike replied wryly. "It was a promotion he
richly deserved, but it didn't set well down here."

"And why not?" Skinner demanded. His stare was
piercing.

"Have you met the current Bureau Chief?" Mike said,
keeping his tone and expression neutral with difficulty.

"No."

"Then I won't say anything. I'll let you meet him and
figure it out for yourself. Anyhow, after it was clear that we were
gettin' nowhere fast, Norm decided to call in the big guns from
Washington. Reggie Pardue came down with this wet-behind-
the-ears kid." Mike chuckled at the memory. "He looked more
than anything like he needed someone to give him a good meal
and send him home to his Momma. We had heard of Reggie -
he was a legend, God rest his soul. But no one knew anything
about this new guy, Mulder. He looked like such a frail
bookworm. We figured his first look at a dead body and he'd
pass out - if he didn't do somethin' stupid and get himself killed
first.

"Reggie and Mulder looked over the case file and Reg
started askin' the usual questions. Then Mulder pipes up and
asks to see the case files of all the other unsolved murders in
the area. So everyone starts givin' him a hard time. I mean, we
can't solve the one murder we've got, and this cocky kid wants
to solve all of Atlanta's crimes. But Reggie asked him why he
wanted to know. And the fact that Reggie was takin' the kid
seriously shut us up in a hurry. So Mulder starts quotin' from the
file - from memory, you understand, after skimmin' it only once -
and points out a couple of tiny details that no one had thought
were important. Reggie ordered us to get copies of the other
unsolved homicides for the past six months from the APD, so
we did. Damned if the kid didn't spot the same details in six of
the other cases. That's the first we knew we had a serial killer
out there. Freaked everyone out."

"He has a photographic memory," said Skinner. "It's
one of the reasons the Bureau recruited him. But the
processing, the analysis of all those tiny details - no one knows
how the hell he does that."

"I know - spooky, right? Anyway, so now we have a
serial killer on our hands. Mulder went into a room, closed the
door and came out six hours later, lookin' like shit, with the
profile in his hand. And I mean, he *nailed* the guy. He couldn't
have done much better if he had given us a snapshot and the
guy's home address. After goin' through the computer there
were just three possible matches to his profile. Mulder read
what the computer spit out, pointed to a name, and just said,
'That's him - that's the guy'. 'Course we had to check 'em all out.
We all split up into teams to track down the three suspects and
question them. With some fear and trepidation on my part, I
took Mulder out with me. I knew he was smart - but he was
spooky smart, know what I mean? Scary, like he had some
sorta psychic thing goin' on. That was weird enough. Add to
that the fact that I had no idea how this guy would handle
himself in a confrontation. So you can see why I was nervous.

"We were on the trail of the suspect - the one Mulder
said was our guy - for four days straight before we caught up
with him. You spend that much time with someone non-stop,
you get to know him. And the more I knew, the more I liked. He
was refreshingly free of any racial hangups. You'd be surprised
at the number of white agents that can come up with a million
excuses not to room or go into a restaurant with a black one,
even in these enlightened times," Mike said dryly. "And he was
funny, and interestin' to talk to. Curious about everything. More
open to different ideas than anyone I ever met. Of course, he
seemed kinda messed up. There were these huge walls, you
could just watch 'em come crashin' down when certain subjects
came up in conversation. And his eyes would get all wary, know
what I mean? Bruised, like he had been hurt - a lot - in the
past."

Skinner nodded. "God knows Mulder hasn't gotten the
respect he deserves from most of the agents in the Bureau. It's
made him cautious. But I suspect that much of what brings
down those walls happened long before he joined. You know,
even a professional relationship within the Bureau is rare for
Mulder. But you and he seem more like friends in the truest
sense of the word, than merely professional colleagues."

"It all began with that case," Mike said gravely. "When a
man saves your life, I guess it brings you a little closer."

"You saved Mulder's life?"

He smiled. "We had finally caught up with the suspect
and were interviewin' him in his apartment. Mulder did some of
the talkin', but as senior agent, I did most of it." Mike shook his
head wonderingly. "The guy just seemed so damn *normal*. He
was cooperative, gracious, calm - even joked good-naturedly
about the ludicrous mistake we were makin'. I figured, hey, the
kid did well gettin' as far as he did, but he was just way off base
about this particular guy. Whether he matched the profile or
not, there was no way the man we were interviewin' could be a
serial killer. And that's when it happened.

"I got sloppy - I admit it. I was totally convinced by this
guy that Mulder was wrong. Mulder was across the room, kinda
blendin' into the woodwork, just takin' everything in. I got up to
leave, and turned my back on the suspect." At Skinner's
expression of surprise, Mike grimaced. "Yeah, I know - a rookie
mistake. And I was no rookie. Anyway, I don't know whether
the guy had been holdin' himself together by a thread and it
suddenly snapped, or if he thought we were about to arrest him
or what. One second my back was turned, and the next second
Mulder's yellin' at me to look out, and makes this flyin' tackle
across the room to bring this guy down. But not before he
slashed me with a scalpel he had hidden in his pocket. Thanks
to Mulder, I just have a scar to remind me of sixty six stitches
across my back. But he had been goin' for my throat.

"So Mulder cuffs him, and by now the guy has gone
postal, babblin' all kinds of shit, totally out of his mind. I felt
unbelievably stupid. I was just standin' there, lookin' at Mulder
and the suspect, in shock I guess. I didn't even realize I had
been cut, until I heard Mulder phonin' for backup and an
ambulance because an agent was down." He laughed and
shrugged. "Mulder looked okay, so I figured it had to be me. He
was holdin' his gun on the guy with one hand, and pullin' me
onto the couch and applyin' pressure to the wound with the
other. I guess I was bleedin' pretty badly. At that point, the
room started spinnin' and I wasn't too aware of what was goin'
on for a while. The next thing I remember I was bein' loaded
into the ambulance with Mulder standin' beside the gurney,
covered in my blood and his eyes as big as saucers."

Skinner grunted. "Mulder had been on a case not long
before that - a case that went bad and an agent died. Mulder
always blamed himself."

"The Barnett case, yeah, I know. I found out about that
later. Of course he wasn't to blame. But Mulder bein' Mulder,
he would blame himself, wouldn't he?" The two men looked at
each other in perfect understanding. "Anyway, he stayed in
town for a few days to help with the paperwork, since I wasn't in
much of a position to do anything about it." He laughed. "The
one thing he's never forgiven me for - I left him with all the
paperwork. He met my wife and kids, and came a couple of
times to the hospital to see me. We had a really good talk on
one of the visits, and we got to know each other a whole lot
better. Since then we've kept in touch. He flew down to see me
once - after Dana was abducted. He was a mess, a real mess.
Very close to the edge. I really thought he might.... Anyway, I
like to think in some small part I might have helped him get
through that time. I owe him my life, it's the least I could do.
And we get to work together on odd occasions. Even if he
hadn't saved my life, I think I would have been drawn to him.
He's special, one of a kind. Difficult, maddening, certainly self-
destructive, but very special. And a hell of a good friend. That's
what's so hard about this." He broke off and toyed listlessly with
the food on his plate. "I'm the one that called him down here. In
a way, this is my fault."

Skinner peered at the black agent intently. "Now you're
starting to sound like Mulder," he said acidly. "Eat, Agent
Thomas. That's an order." In a softer tone, he continued. "I
know he's your friend, and his and Scully's disappearance is
difficult for you. I take it as hard as you do, believe me, and as
seriously. But *you* might need to save *his* neck this time.
You can't do it if you're passing out because you're on a hunger
strike."

"You haven't said why you're down here. I can't imagine
you run after every agent that gets into trouble." Mike said. He
speared some food unenthusiastically and began to eat.

The AD hesitated. "When Mulder took on the X-Files,
he and I were at odds, to say the least. We still are, sometimes.
But I don't know anyone in the Bureau with as much integrity -
unless it's Scully. Up in Washington, you can get pretty fucking
charred around the edges. Things happen, and they make you
cynical. You start to think that no one tells the truth anymore,
that nothing is straightforward. But those two are a breath of
fresh air. No politics, no hidden agendas. Just the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. In a way, it makes them
very naive. With some of the things they've worked on, some of
the things they know, naivite can kill." He frowned. "Let's just
say that I don't like an unfair fight. I like to even the odds a bit."

Skinner leaned back in his seat, and loosened his tie.
His behavior was more casual than he usually was with a
subordinate, but he felt an instant comfort level with this man, a
sense of trust that was rare. God knew Mulder needed all the
friends he could get. He clearly had a good one in Agent
Thomas.

He took another draught of his beer. He was exhausted.
It had been a bitch of a week, and now this. He was worried to
death about the pair. The two were inseparable. One of the
AD's biggest fears was when the day would come that death
would separate them - whether that came about in pursuit of a
case, or because of Agent Scully's cancer. He just hoped to God
this wasn't the day.

"So you *would* run down here for any agent?" Mike
asked perceptively, realizing the AD hadn't really answered his
question.

Skinner paused a moment, then smiled. "No, I guess
not. Off the record..." his sudden piercing stare made it clear
that the consequences of repeating this would be severe - "...I
made the mistake of getting to like them as people, rather than
thinking of them just as agents under my command. With
anyone else, it wouldn't matter so much. And with their track
record for getting into dangerous positions...."

"Then you must be getting used to this."

"Yeah, one or the other of them has been in trouble
before, too many times. But I'll tell you, Mike, you don't get
used to it - not ever."

- - - - -

Astor Sausage plant
Saturday, March 15
12:40 A.M.

"Oh, shit."

Mulder jerked into wakefulness. "What is it, Scully?"

"I think I have a nosebleed. My tissues... my bag's
outside... Mulder...." She felt a handerkerchief being pushed
into her palm. "Thanks." She leaned forward, pressing the cloth
to her nose. There was silence for several minutes.

"How often do these things happen?"

He tried to keep his voice even, tried to hide the
concern even as he realized that it was a hopeless task. He had
been careful not to ask about the symptoms she might be
having, careful not to do or say anything she might interpret as
his being overprotective. He had resolved to play this thing out
by her rules, showing his feelings only when she gave him the
opening to do so. She was trying so hard to keep her own fears
in check; he knew that she didn't need to be burdened with his
as well. As a result, there was a tension - not between them, but
within them. A rigid control that relaxed only when she was
feeling particularly vulnerable and reached out to him. As hard
as those times were on both of them, he actually welcomed
them. Welcomed the brief catharsis they brought, the chance to
hold each other and surrender that tight control for something
more comforting, more intimate, though no less frightening in its
own way.

"What? The nosebleeds? Maybe every week or so.
There, it's stopping already." She leaned back carefully against
his shoulder. "It's almost funny, Mulder. I've spent - we've both
spent - so much time and energy over the last few months
thinking about the cancer, trying to find the answer, the cure.
Now it looks like we really didn't have to worry about it after all."

"We're not going to die here, Scully," he said firmly.

"Mulder, I admire your - dare I say it - faith, but it doesn't
look good. The air's getting stale in here. I was a physics
major, remember? I've done the calculations in my head. If we
conserve our energy, we might just have enough oxygen to stay
conscious until the building explodes. That's not a lot of
incentive. Do you really think that someone will find us before
then and get us out of here?" She felt him shrug.

"We've gotten out of tighter jams." He pulled her closer.
She lay her head on his chest and circled his waist with her
arms.

"Yes, you're right, we have. We both have. I wonder
why?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Scully," he
murmured. He was quiet for a while, then suddenly became
more alert as a thought crossed his mind. "Why? Do you think
there's fate at work here or something?"

"Maybe. Maybe something like that."

"Ooh, you turn me on when you get all metaphysical."
His cheek rested against her hair, his voice a pleasant rumble
that reverberated through her body.

She felt him smile against her hair and her own lips
curled in response. "Save your breath - literally. Whatever you
have in mind would use too much oxygen."

"My timing's always been shit," he grumbled.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Her voice was soft, low, warm.

"We're not going to die in here," he repeated, squeezing
her gently. "All right, let's change the subject. We'll go back to
the Question Game. Let's see - okay, what's your political
affiliation?"

"What, I brought up religion so now you're bringing up a
another taboo? Well, you're going to be disappointed, Mulder.
Completely and totally Independent. It's what comes from
having a mother that's as Democrat as they come, and a father
who was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican. So you won't be able to
embroil me in any political debates. I've heard them all, believe
me. What about you?"

"Me? I'm as apolitical as anyone can be. Not quite to the
point of anarchist, but not far off. Politics is meaningless,
because the people involved are all the same, regardless of
party. Blinded by their own greed, lust for power, and lack of
imagination." He shook his head. "Okay, my turn again." He
thought for a moment, then asked "What do you think are the
five most important characteristics in a friend?"

"That's easy. Integrity... strength... intelligence...
passion... and a good sense of humor."

Her answer took his breath away. She considered him
her friend, didn't she? Is that how she saw him? Could he be
that lucky? Or was he an exception to her criteria? Lightly,
Mulder replied, "Just because we're locked in this refrigeration
unit together, Scully, you don't have to flatter me like that."

"It's not flattery," she responded seriously. "You are my
*best* friend, and you are all those things and more."

"As you are mine," he said, his voice a soft, low rumble.
He paused, his mind turning over the implications of what had
just been said. They had never spoken so nakedly to each
other... but then, the circumstances were hardly routine. It was
honesty time... there was precious little time for anything else.
"So, in friendship - integrity, strength, intelligence, passion and a
good sense of humor.... So what characteristics do you look for
in a lover?"

She paused. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a
hint of surprise, as if she were discovering something for the first
time.

"Exactly the same things."

End of Chapter Six

FAITH 7/9
by Suzanne Bickerstaffe
Ecksphile@aol.com
May 30, 1997

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One

Chapter Seven

Astor Sausage plant
Saturday, March 15
6:20 A.M.

Dimly aware of discomfort, Scully rolled over, then woke
completely. She panicked for a moment, when she opened her
eyes to blackness as dense as when they were closed. My God,
she thought. The tumor.... I'm blind! Then she remembered
where she was, and, feeling a little foolish, waited for her heart
to stop its frenzied racing. Next to her, she could feel the
presence of her partner, stretched out on the cement floor. She
wondered if he ached as much as she did. Probably not - he
was used to sleeping on his lumpy couch. He was undoubtedly
as thirsty, though. She ran her tongue over parched lips, but it
brought no moisture. Even her dreams had been filled with
images of clear, sparkling streams and crystal waterfalls. She
heard the rumble of her partner's empty stomach.

"Are you awake, Mulder?"

"Yeah."

She knew that tone. It was only one syllable, but it
spoke volumes. He had been thinking again, probably trying to
figure out a way to blame himself for their predicament. She
sighed. "It's not your fault."

He started a little. "Becoming psychic, Scully?"

"Mulder, after four years I can read you like a book. You
are so predictable. Whenever we get into a situation like this,
you use your prodigious mental skills to find a way to take the
blame for what's happened."

"Well, you're the one with the appreciation for facts," he
said dully. "If I hadn't blundered into Gatling and gotten knocked
out - "

"Tell you what. Next time, I'll do the blundering and get
myself knocked out. Then we won't have to go through this."

There was a long silence. "Are you pissed at me,
Scully?" he asked tentatively, a little surprised by her
brusqueness.

She sighed again. "No. No, I'm not pissed at you." She
paused, considering. "Exasperated would be a better term."

"Why?"

"Mulder, you beat yourself up constantly. Do you know
how much energy we've wasted over the years - you blaming
yourself and me trying to reassure you? God, you could power a
city for a month with the energy we've wasted! And before you
think of a way to blame yourself for *that*, we're going to change
the subject," she declared. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I'm not sure we should be talking at all," he responded
dryly. "The air's getting pretty sparse in here."

She had noticed, but preferred not to dwell on it. "What
time is it?"

Mulder looked at the luminous dial of his watch. "6:25 in
the morning."

"Well, Mike's surely looking for us by now. Maybe
someone will check all of the buildings before they set off the
explosives." Even to Scully, her words sounded thin.

"Yeah, maybe. But I haven't heard anyone out there yet.
Gatling was right about one thing - this is a very solidly built
refrigeration unit," he said wryly.

He was silent for several minutes. Oh, no you don't, she
thought. Before he could indulge in another round of self-
flagellation, she said, "All right. Your choice - do we talk about
the case or about something else?"

"Um... something else, I think. There's still something
bothering me about Gatling's last note, but the answer seems to
get further away the more I think about it. Maybe if I
concentrate on something else, it will come to me eventually.
Except we don't have a lot of eventually left, do we?"

She rolled over towards him, and he put out his arm,
gathering her into it. "You were the one who said we've gotten
out of tighter jams than this."

After a few seconds, he hugged her closer. "You're
right. I will banish all negative thoughts from my mind," he said
lightly. "Okay - I get to pick the topic of conversation, then.
How are you, Scully? Honestly."

"I'm f - "

"No!" he interrupted sharply. Then his tone was urgent,
strained. "Be honest. Please. Don't protect me, don't hold
back."

He felt her shrug. "Honestly, Mulder, there's really
nothing. An occasional nosebleed, a headache when I get
overtired...."

"No, not how you're doing physically. I mean, I'm glad
you're not in pain or anything, don't get me wrong. I couldn't be
more delighted about that. But I can see how you're doing
physically. But there's times... there's times when I feel you
want - no, *need* - to talk about what you're feeling inside, what
you're going through emotionally. And a nanosecond later,
there's a huge fucking wall, keeping me out." His voice
softened. "You're protecting me, Scully. Overprotecting me.
You know how you feel when I try to do that to you, right? Can't
you see that you're doing the same thing to me? That I want to
be there for you, but you're pushing me away?"

He broke off, trying to put his emotions into words.
"Jesus, Scully. The only way I'm going to get through this - and
the only way you are - is if we can talk honestly about what we're
feeling. Not climb into our respective suits of armor and pretend
we're invincible. Not try to shut it out, ignore it like it will all go
away. I want to help, I *need* to help. You're a strong woman,
Scully - the strongest person I know. But even you need to be
able to talk, or cry, or get pissed off and swear like a sailor
sometimes. And you're not letting yourself. There can be only
two reasons for that."

"Which are...?" she asked, her voice catching in her
throat.

His words were measured, slow, carefully chosen.
"Because of the way you feel about yourself, and because of the
way you feel about me. Ever since I've known you, you've been
strong. But your strength is making you a prisoner, Scully.
You've somehow gotten the idea that you wouldn't be respected,
or liked, or valued, or loved if you showed anything but strength.
And that's come close to killing you on at least one occasion."
He felt her stiffen in his arms, knowing that she was, as he
intended, remembering the nightmare in Minneapolis on the
Pfaster case. "And you know the most ironic thing of all, Scully?
Admitting you need help, or are scared, or mad as hell, or
whatever, wouldn't make a goddamn bit of difference to the way
I feel about you."

She felt the tears start to spill then, quietly insistent
trickles down her cheeks. She knew - on a conscious level, she
*knew* - that everything her partner was saying was true. But it
was hard to act against a lifetime of behaving a certain way.
Strength was the only way she knew how to cope. It had taken
strength to get her where she was. Through the childhood of
being a military brat, uprooted every couple of years to begin to
build a life from the ground up, over and over again. Through
the years of being the bookworm kid sister of a fun, pretty and
popular older one. Through the years of college, and med
school. Through the rift with her family when she joined the
Bureau. Her father's death... and Missy's. Her strength had
been so often the only thing she had any faith in....

"You can have faith in me, Scully," he said earnestly, as
if reading her thoughts. "Oh, I know all too often I behave like
the Poster Child for National Psychosis Week. And I know your
beliefs are different from mine and probably always will be. I
accept that. But I also know you're my partner, my best friend,
and .. and more. I'm not made of glass, Scully. I won't break.
Don't make this easy for me - this *shouldn't* be easy. I *can*
do this, I can be there for you. Trust me, please. Put your faith in
me. It won't be misplaced. I want the chance to prove it to you.
I *need* it. And so do you."

There was a long silence. The wall cracked, and then
crumbled. And Scully finally began to talk.

- - - - -

Tucker, Georgia
Saturday, March 15
10:45 A.M.

"Take the next left," directed Mike. "Then pull in front of
the third trailer on the right."

Skinner pulled the Grand Marquis to a stop outside the
dilapidated dwelling. Here there were none of the flower boxes,
shrubs and lawn ornaments that other residents had set out in an
ingenuous attempt to cheer up the depressing trailer park. Here
there was a greasy truck engine on cement blocks, and a trash
can overflowing with Bud bottles. A Tucker Police Department
cruiser glided to a halt behind them. The two tall, burly officers
got out and strolled over to confer with the Federal agents.

"Thanks for backing us up on this one," Skinner said,
shaking their hands.

"No problem, sir," answered the senior cop. "We just
put the car on autopilot, and we end up here. We get called out
to this place every weekend, regular as clockwork. Sometimes
in the middle of the week, too. Ray Yancey's a real bastard.
When your call came in, we figured y'all might need a bit of
backup."

"It's appreciated, believe me," replied Mike. "You know
why we're here."

"Yes, sir. Yancey's wanted for questioning in the church
bombings and in the disappearance of two Federal agents."

"That's right," Skinner responded. "And if he is our guy,
he could do anything, so be ready. If he pulls a weapon and you
have to bring him down, don't shoot to kill. I want him alive to
answer questions concerning the whereabouts of our agents.
Hate to put you guys behind the eight-ball like that, but it's
unavoidable."

"We'll do our best, sir," said Blandford, the younger of
the cops. "Y'all might want to let us go in first. Ol' Ray's kinda
used to us, and he's gonna be in a bitch of a mood. Always is in
the morning. He probably tied one on last night and has a hell
of a hangover at this point."

"Whatever you think is best," agreed the AD. In his
heart of hearts, he didn't think that Ray Yancey was the bomber.
Not with the collection of beer bottles and the confirmed history
of habitual alcohol abuse. It simply didn't fit into the profile. But
the third suspect on the list, James Gatling, couldn't be found,
and both he and Mike were chafing at their helplessness. They
had to do something, take some sort of action. So until the
APB's turned up some new information, either on Gatling, the
missing agents, or their car, they had opted to interview the next
most likely suspect on the list.

The Tucker officers made their way between piles of
refuse and knocked on the door. "Ray? This is Sergeant
Blount.... C'mon out, Ray. We need to talk to you."

A string of obscenities was heard originating from inside
the trailer. "Ray - we have a search warrant and we're comin' - "
The officer broke off as the door was flung open.

Ray Yancey stood swaying unsteadily in the doorway,
squinting against the weak sunlight. His eyes were red, and his
face wore a week's stubble, not entirely successfully
camouflaging an unhealthy complexion of grayish yellow.
"What the fuck do you want?"

"Ray, there's two agents from the FBI here. They want
to ask you some questions."

He raised his head to peer at Skinner and Thomas. "No
fuckin' nigger's comin' into my home."

Mike remained unperturbed. "We can do this here, Mr.
Yancey, or we can cuff you and take you to FBI headquarters.
Your call."

Yancey hesitated, then looked disgusted and shuffled
away from the door into the comparative dark of the trailer. The
police officers followed him inside, with Skinner and Mike
bringing up the rear.

The odor of stale beer, cigarette smoke and faulty
plumbing permeated the miserable atmosphere. Paper plates
with food in varying stages of decay were everywhere, and busy
roaches scuttled over them hungrily. There was precious little
space in the tiny trailer. The four law officers, each of them at
least six foot two, dwarfed the short, skinny Yancey, contributing
to the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia.

He threw himself into the one chair the small room had
to offer. "So what the fuck do you want from me?" he asked
sullenly.

"We're here to ask you some questions about the
firebombings of black churches," began Skinner.

"I'm in favor of 'em. What the hell else do you want to
know?" Yancey smiled insolently.

Skinner kept his temper in check only with effort. "We
understand you've worked in construction and have some
expertise with explosives."

"I was the best in the fuckin' business."

"Are you working now?"

Yancey laughed bitterly. "Shee-it, no. Ain't y'all ever
heard of affirmative action? They gave all the jobs to niggers."
He glowered at Mike.

Blandford chuckled. "Ray, y'all had your ass canned for
the last time way before affirmative action ever came in. It's the
damn booze that made you lose your job. Your hands shake
when you're sober, and when y'all have a buzz on, you're too
busy fightin' to do any damn work." He looked over at Mike and
Skinner. "My uncle has a construction company in town. Ray,
here, used to work for him."

The agents gazed down at Yancey, who had found the
longest cigarette butt in the ashtray and was attempting to light
it. Sure enough, his hands shook so much he nearly scorched
his face with the lighter.

"We want to know your whereabouts on these dates."
Skinner handed him the list. Through eyes narrowed against the
cigarette smoke, Yancey glanced at the list, then calmly crushed
the paper into a ball and let it drop to his feet.

"Ray isn't real fond of reading," murmured Blount to the
Federal agents. He leaned over and picked it up off the
threadbare rug. "Here, I'll read it for you, Ray." He began to
read aloud the list of dates of the firebombings, then stopped.
"Oh-oh."

"What?" asked Mike.

"Well, if I'da seen this, I coulda saved you gentlemen
some time and trouble."

Skinner glared. "How's that?"

Blount looked up from the paper."These dates in late
November and December.... Ray had a snootful one night
around Thanksgiving down at the local tavern, and got himself
into a hell of a fight. After they put him back together at the
hospital, he was guest of the county for thirty days."

"Are you sure?"

"Surer than sure. I was doin' my inside rotation - nights
down at the station. Jail's in the basement. He went into DT's on
us, had to have the paramedics out and everything. When he
dried out, he got even meaner, which we didn't think was
possible. In the history of the department, we've never been so
glad to get rid of a prisoner. In fact, he got out just in time to
celebrate the New Year by getting tanked up and thrown into jail
again. He mighta been around for some of these more recent
dates, but if you're lookin' for just one guy, Yancey isn't him. "

"Is this true, Yancey?" Skinner demanded.

Yancey looked up at him, his lip curling. "Yeah. Now
why don't you just fuck off, and take your fuckin' nigger friend
with you?"

Skinner, hands clenched, lunged involuntarily toward the
man. Mike caught his arm. "Thank you for your time, Mr.
Yancey. Sorry to inconvenience you." he said dryly. "And thank
you, officers." He nodded at the two policemen and pulled
Skinner from the trailer. Behind them, they could hear Yancey
shouting "I hope you fuckers *never* catch him...." The AD
tensed, ready to go back and take the man apart. Mike didn't
release Skinner's sleeve until they were at the car.

"That drunken little shit," Skinner muttered. "That son of
a bitch.... "

"With you in your present state of mind, I hope you won't
take this the wrong way, sir, but I think I'd better drive," Mike
said, holding his hand out. The AD looked at him, then
reluctantly dropped the carkeys into his palm.

As they drove out of the trailer park and down the road,
Skinner fumed. "How the hell can you be so damn calm?" he
demanded.

Mike shrugged. "Why should that guy bother me? Look
at him - he's a mess. He's thirty four years old and looks fifty
four. His liver's dyin'. He's got nothin'. He's so eaten up by
hatred and envy, he's livin' in hell even before he's dead." He
glanced over at Skinner. A vein in the AD's temple pulsed
wildly. "Maybe we better take you to the hospital and get your
blood pressure checked, sir," he said, jokingly.

Skinner's jaw unclenched then, and a ghost of a smile
curved his lips. He seemed to make a conscious effort to relax.

"I expect it's been a long time since you've been out in
the field, sir."

He chuckled, nodding. "Yeah - too long. Or after today,
maybe not long enough. Christ, what an animal! You handled
yourself well in there, Thomas. How did you get into this line of
work?"

"Long story." He jammed on the brakes at a stop sign.
The air was filled with the squeal of brakes and the smell of
burning rubber.

"I thought your driving was supposed to be an
improvement over mine," Skinner said dryly.

"You're in good company, Mulder gives me a hard time
about it, too. So how did I get into the Bureau? I never knew
growing up what I wanted to do with my life. Needless to say,
back when I was a teenager, there weren't a lot of doors open to
me. So I volunteered for the Marines and went to 'Nam."

Skinner snorted. "Bad choice."

"What the hell did I know, I was just a kid."

"Yeah, me too."

"Yeah? Semper Fi. I was in Hue around '65, '66. How
about you?"

"Interesting spot. I was near Da Nang, 1967 through the
summer of '68."

"Shit!" Thomas glanced over with respect. "Oh - sorry,
sir. I mean, so you were there for the Tet Offensive."

Skinner nodded, his lips tight. Mike knew the look - the
guarded, closed expression so many of the Vets he had worked
with got. He continued, "Anyway, two years in the Marines
taught me only one thing - that I didn't want to be a Marine." He
grinned at Skinner's sympathetic chuckle. "So I went to school,
got my degree and eventually became a minister."

"Christ, Thomas! It's a hell of a jump from minister to
FBI agent. Hey, watch that kid on the bike!"

Mike swerved deftly but didn't slow down.

"Yeah, it's a jump, all right. I was good at it, and there
was a lot I liked about it. I did a lot of counselin', tryin' to bring
some peace to folks who were troubled. That was the most
rewardin'. But there was a lot of bullshit too, bullshit and
hypocrisy. That just about drove me crazy. But I was puttin' up
with it. Then, somethin' happened. The Atlanta Child Murders.
And I began to feel like I wasn't in the right line of work. The son
of one of my congregation was taken. I had to try to put the
pieces of that family back together - good people, totally
devastated by what one sick bastard had done.

"I guess you could say I had a crisis of faith. Wonderin'
how a merciful God could allow that sorta stuff to happen.
Anyway, I applied to the State Police Academy and went
through trainin', takin' a few graduate-level law courses on the
side. When I graduated, I applied to the Bureau. Shocked the
shit out of me when I was accepted. Seems they were drawn to
the 'unique combination of skills and training' I had had.
Gradually I got my faith back, stronger than ever. Maybe it was
just God givin' me a nudge in the right direction, I don't know.
The rest, as they say, is history."

The car phone beeped. Skinner made a grab for it -
Mike drove wildly enough without the distraction. But the black
agent was quicker. "Thomas....." His expression grew grim.
"When was that?... *What?*.... Look, Alvin, you get your ass
over there and stop it, I don't care what you have to do.... I don't
give a shit about the film crew, I don't care if they dug up Cecil
B. DeMille himself.... Well, if the shit hits the fan, Howard can
deal with it and bring me up on charges, if he has a mind to. Just
don't let them bring down those buildings!" He accelerated up
the ramp to the Interstate.

Mike glanced over at Skinner, who was looking at him
expectantly. "They found their car, parked in one of the
suburbs. Gatling's prints are all over it."

"What was that about bringing buildings down?" Skinner
asked sharply.

Mike's face was grim. "The construction project that
Gatling was workin' on. The last place we're sure Mulder and
Scully were. It's a whole block of old factories and warehouses.
And it's scheduled for demolition in exactly fifteen minutes."

- - - - -

Astor Sausage plant
Saturday, March 15
11:50 A.M.

His words came haltingly as he gasped for the oxygen
that was no longer in their prison. His lungs burned and a
lethargy hung over him, a lethargy with which he had been
fighting a losing battle for the past two hours. Scully had already
been overpowered and lay semiconscious on the cement beside
him.

"Scully.... Have to get... in a corner.... Safer, better...
chance... when building...."

"Mmm...."

He shook her. "C'mon.... Have to move...."

His thought processes had been sluggish for the past
hour. If only I had thought of this sooner, he mused. He looked
down on his drowsing partner, wondering if it wouldn't be kinder
to let her sleep through what was to come. No, he thought. No,
they weren't going to die in here, not while he could do
something about it, however inadequate. Gently he moved
Scully's head from the cushion his arm had provided, and tried
to stand. The effort left his chest heaving and he collapsed on
the floor. Finally, he grabbed her collar and began to drag her,
inch by painful inch, across the confines of the refrigeration unit.

"Mulder...? What...?" She struggled, accomplishing
nothing but tiring her partner further and using more of the
dwindling oxygen.

"Gotta... get... in corner.... Now!"

With a tremendous effort, she focused on Mulder's
words. Like trying to recapture some long-forgotten memory,
she concentrated until her partner's direction made some sense.
"Okay.... With you, now.... Go...." Together they dragged
themselves to the corner nearest the door, and leaned against
the wall there, panting. Some hours ago, Mulder had remarked
on the incredible irony of being locked in a refrigeration unit that
had gotten progressively warmer. At this point it was beyond
warm all the way to hot. Their dehydration had reached the point
that now they sweated little, despite their exertions and the heat
in their small chamber. Mulder wrapped himself protectively
around his partner.

"How... long?" she asked.

"Any... time now.... Scully... I...- "

"I know.... Me too."

Weakly, he nodded. It wasn't enough. Months wouldn't
have been enough to say all he wanted and needed to say. But
they had run out of time, and it would have to suffice. Surely,
she knew how he felt. Didn't she?

She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, resting
her head on his shoulder, getting comfort from his touch, his
proximity one last time. At least, they were together. At least
one wouldn't be left behind, to face the world wounded, alone,
confused, always missing that vital part that made them whole.
Resolutely, she put the bitter regrets for things left unsaid,
undone, from her mind. At least they were together.

The silence seemed to fill their ears, their minds.
Mulder thought once again of Gatling and his promise to bring
down Satan's Temple. He hoped that Mike would - My God!

"Scully! I know... where Gatling... will b- "

And then their ears were filled with the sounds of chaos.

- - -

Skinner hung on grimly as the car careened all over the
road. Mulder and Scully had to be at the construction site.
Someone surely would have noticed them leaving, whether
under their own power, or.... But why wouldn't they have been
found by now? Unless their bodies had been hidden.... Skinner
clenched his jaw. Don't go there, he thought. They were alive.
They had to be. He had to believe that....

Mike drove like a madman, and the construction site
was just a couple of hundred yards ahead and closing. They
screeched to a stop and were out of the car at a run, wildly
searching for Alvin, for the foreman, for anyone who could tell
them that the demolition had been cancelled -

Suddenly there was a roar, as they were buffetted by
windswept clouds of dust and smoke. Mike's eyes widened in
horror. Where the block of brick buildings had stood a second
before, there was only rubble.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!"

End of Chapter Seven

FAITH 8/9
by Suzanne Bickerstaffe
Ecksphile@aol.com
May 30, 1997

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One

Chapter Eight

A-One Construction site
Atlanta.
12 Noon

They gaped in horror at the demolished block. Nearby,
the film crew was congratulating each other on their capture of
the unrepeatable shot.

Alvin approached them, tears of frustration brimming in
his eyes. "I tried to stop it. I tried. But between their permit,
their lawyers and the son of a bitch director of the fucking
movie, they wouldn't listen. Then they called Fildster. He
wouldn't back us up, Mike. The fucker told them they could go
ahead with it. I couldn't do a thing. They just brought it all
down...." His voice broke.

Mike absently put a consoling hand on the young agent's
shoulder. Mulder... Spaceman... he couldn't be dead - not like
this. He observed the scene of destruction, but his mind, his
whole being was praying harder than he had prayed in years.

"Where's the foreman?" demanded Skinner. Alvin
pointed to a stocky man about thirty feet away.

"Are you the foreman?" yelled the AD, striding up to the
man.

"Yeah, that's me. And before you start screamin', we
had a legal permit to do this. If we hadn't done it now, it mighta
taken weeks to get another one. There's a lot of money ridin' on
this project. Your Bureau Chief seemed to understand that."

"You had better pray that we don't find the bodies of
those missing agents in there," Skinner said, his voice shaking
with fury. "Because if we do, I will make it my personal mission
to see that everyone connected with this - including the Bureau
Chief - pays for it for the rest of their lives. Do you read me?"

Granger took an involuntary step back. If it had been up
to him, he might have postponed it. But between the lawyers,
the head of the construction company and that sleezy Hollywood
guy, he had been stuck.. He was just following his orders. His
impossible position made him bold. "Look, Mister. We checked
out all those buildings - twice - before we set off the blast.
We're professionals here, not idiots."

"Do you remember seeing the agents here yesterday?"
Skinner snapped.

"Yeah. A guy and a girl, right? Lookin' for Jim-Bob
Gatling."

"Where's the last place they went?"

Granger scratched his head. "Let's see, it's been pretty
busy here the last couple of days. I think... yeah. I think I sent
them down to the Astor plant, that last building down there."

The AD looked in the direction Granger pointed and felt
a glimmer of hope. While all the other buildings in the block
were now just piles of broken brick, the Astor plant still had the
remnants of some walls. Maybe, just maybe -

"Mike, Alvin - let's go." The three men began running
toward the remains of the building.

"Hey!" yelled Granger at the retreating figures. "You
can't go in there, it's dangerous. You need hardhats.... Hey!"
He shrugged. "Samuels, Riley. Better go down there and make
sure they don't get into any trouble." The two workers followed
far behind the agents at a leisurely stroll.

Alvin, the youngest and fastest of the three, skidded to a
stop and peered into the wreckage. It was like a post-
apocalyptic nightmare. The twisted metal corpses of huge
machines and mounds of brick lay everywhere. "We're gonna
need help," he observed to the others.

Skinner and Mike pushed past him and began
clambering over piles of debris. "Mulder?" "Scully?" they called
repeatedly, praying that they'd hear something, any kind of
response. When they got it, they almost didn't believe it.

From the far end of the building, they thought they heard
a muffled call.

"Mulder?" Now the three of them scrambled as fast as
they could over the shifting rubble, heedless of their own safety.
"Mulder? We're comin', man. Just keep yellin'," shouted Mike.
There was a weak response, over in the direction of what looked
like a huge metal box. A huge metal box that had been run over
by a tank, its sides ripped and torn, its top crushed. A pile of
debris blocked the door.

"Looks like a refrigeration unit," observed Skinner. He
grasped the handle and opened the door the scant two inches
allowed by the wreckage. "Mulder, are you in there?" There
was no answer, and his heart sank. "Mulder," he yelled.
"Mulder, are you and Scully in there?"

"Yeah" was the shaky reply. "You're late."

"Thank you, Jesus," murmured Mike. Tears rolled down
his face unashamedly.

Skinner felt the rush of unaccustomed tears to his own
eyes. "We're gonna get you out, Mulder. Is Scully okay?"

"Can't hear you - ears are ringing."

The AD repeated his question, louder.

There was a pause. The response was hoarse, broken.
"She's breathing, but she's unconscious. Hurry!"

"Okay, Mulder. Help's coming. You men" - Skinner
yelled to the two workmen, finally arriving on the scene - "help
us clear away this shit so we can open the door." Horrified, the
workers joined Mike in heaving bricks and machine parts away
from the door. "Alvin - I saw an ambulance out there, standing
by. Go get the paramedics." Without a word, the young agent
scrambled back out of the ruins as fast as he could move.

In a remarkably short time, the demolished building was
filled with men, clearing a way for the stretchers the paramedics
carried in.

"I need some light here!" shouted Skinner. Materializing
from somewhere, a flashlight was pressed into his hands. As
soon as enough rubble was cleared for the door to open just
enough to admit them, he and Mike shoved their way into the
metal prison.

"Jesus, Mulder!"

He smiled wanly up at them. He was sprawled in the
corner, still wrapped around Scully. They were covered with dirt
and dust, and one of them had been bleeding. Not twelve
inches from their heads was a huge ragged rent in the metal
wall. The ceiling was crushed under the weight of fallen debris,
and jagged metal beams had sliced though the unit like giant
pins in a monsterous pincushion. The unit, never large to begin
with, was now compressed to the point that the four figures in
there filled it completely.

Skinner squatted down, placing his hand on his agent's
shoulder. He spoke loudly. "Okay, Mulder. We're going to get
out so the paramedics can get in. Hang on, we're going to get
you two to a hospital. Okay?"

Mulder nodded, not really hearing much of what the AD
had said. But they were alive. Help was here. And now he
could sleep.

- - -

He frowned. Why was someone sticking him with pins?
Couldn't a guy get some sleep? Dimly in the background, he
could hear sounds that were only too familiar. With a groan, he
opened his eyes.

"Rise and shine, Spaceman. And you didn't believe in
the power of prayer," Mike chided.

He rolled his head to his left. Mike stood by the side of
the stretcher, holding his hand. "Sc - !" Mulder began to sit up,
and his friend pushed him back down.

He tore off his oxygen mask. "Scully... where's Scully?"

"They're admitting her up to the floor right now. And
you'll be next." Mike could see the fear in his eyes. "She's all
right, Mulder. Skinner's with her. You guys were runnin' on
empty when they brought you in, so they're just toppin' you up
with some IV fluids. They want to hold you here for a day or so,
make sure all your parts are in working order."

"What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost three thirty."

"Shit! I can't stay here, Mike. There's no time."

"Don't be an asshole, Mulder. Of course you have to
stay here. In the last twenty four hours, you've been beaten up,
suffocated and exploded. Be sensible, Spaceman. Oh, Lord,
what am I saying?" he said, looking heavenward for strength.

"Drop the siderail, Mike. I'm getting up."

"The hell you are."

"Drop it or I'll climb over it. Believe me, I've done it
before."

"Spaceman, you'd fall flat on your face. You can't."

"Wanna watch me? Shit, what is this? IV's in *both*
arms?"

Mike shook his head resignedly. "Hold on. I'll get the
nurse."

Two minutes later, Skinner barrelled into the cubicle,
closely followed by a nurse in scrubs. "What's this bullshit about
you wanting out?" Skinner glared through his glasses.

"Sir, I'm fine. We're wasting time here."

"Mulder, you were dehydrated, you've got twenty three
stitches in your hands, wrists and head, and you've lost a hell of
a lot of blood, if what I saw on your clothes is anything to go by.
You've been in a goddamn explosion, for Christ's sake!"

"And I've had some fluids and I'm not bleeding anymore,
and I've had a nap and I feel fine," Mulder insisted stubbornly.
"Besides, I didn't lose that much blood - it just always looks like
a lot when it's not where it's supposed to be."

"Well, you'd know, with your track record," Skinner
retorted.

Seeking any sort of ally, Mulder turned on his most
charming smile. "Nurse, is there any reason I can't get out of
here?"

"Well, you've had three liters of fluid, your blood gases
are almost back to normal and your vitals are fair to middlin',"
she admitted with a smile. "If it's a choice between forcing you
to stay here so you make my staff's lives hell, or letting you
walk...."

"See?" he said to Skinner.

"I'll have some instructions for you, and some
prescriptions, and you'll have to sign an Against Medical Advice
form...."

"Great. Go get 'em, take these damn needles out of my
arms and show me where I can take a shower. Oh, shit! Do I
have anything I can wear?"

Mike strolled into the cubicle, bearing his overnight bag.
"I had Alvin get this from your hotel. I had a feelin' you wouldn't
be stayin' here long."

Skinner sighed. "Obviously, I have nothing to say about
this. All right, Mulder, get ready to leave."

Within twenty minutes, he had showered, changed, had
his wounds rebandaged and signed his life away. When he
appeared in Scully's room, Mike and Skinner withdrew to the
hallway to wait. She smiled at him, then noticed he was
dressed.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

He had the good grace to look somewhat guilty. "Uh -
leaving."

"Then I'm getting out too." She sat up and pulled the
bedclothes back.

"No, Dana. No, you're not," he said, gently but firmly.
He covered her up again, then pulled a chair over to her bedside
and sat down, reaching through the siderails to hold her hand.
"You were more dehydrated than I was. You haven't been
eating or drinking that much recently, so all this hit you harder.
And what with .. everything else...."

"You mean the cancer," she grimaced.

He nodded. Quietly he said, "Scully, stay here, just
overnight. Let them check you out. I'd feel better about it, after
everything you've been through."

"They've been in touch with my oncologist - do I have
you or Skinner to thank for that?"

"Not guilty. It must have been Skinner."

"I'll settle that score with him later, then. Anyway,
because I've been down here this week, I missed my regular
weekly checkup, so they want to run those tests later today. So
I guess I'm stuck." She sighed and relaxed back into the pillow.

"In more ways than one," he smiled, nodding at the IV.
He twined his fingers with hers, absently rubbing the back of her
hand with his thumb. For a while they didn't talk, just quietly
celebrated the fact that they were both, against all odds, still
alive.

"I assume you signed out AMA." At his nod, she said,
"Mulder, it wouldn't kill you to stay here overnight. There was
the explosion... and those lacerations could get infected."

"They gave me some antibiotics for that, which you'll
probably have to nag me to take. Besides, I think my reputation
as a bad patient precedes me. Somehow the charge nurse in
ER thought I might give the hospital staff a hard time if they kept
me here."

Her eyebrow rose and her lips curved in a wry smile.
"Go figure. So what are you going to do?"

"I have an idea. I think I know where Gatling's going to
hit next. If I'm right, he'll do it tonight. And even if I'm wrong,
we have only until tomorrow morning. So we don't have much
time."

She gazed at him - bandaged, a little pale, his hair still
damp from his shower. "Be careful," she whispered.

He stood, leaned over her, and gently kissed her
forehead. "I will. I'll be back in the morning to spring you out of
here. Get better, G-woman."

"Be safe, G-man."

"Always." He smiled, and was out the door.

- - - - -

FBI Headquarters
Atlanta
4:30 PM

"Okay, Mulder. So what's up?" Skinner demanded.
The young man had been unnaturally quiet in the car on the ride
back from the hospital, barely uttering a word. He sat alone in
the back seat, cloaked in his own thoughts.

"I think I know where Gatling's going to hit next." He
turned to the right, spotting Howard Fildster making his way
toward them, and grimaced. "Mike, would you round up the
team in the conference room?"

"Gladly," his friend said darkly, making his escape.

"Assistant Director Skinner, what an incredible pleasure
it is to meet you!" Fildster gushed. He grabbed the AD's hand
and pumped it vigorously. "And Agent Mulder," he said, with
considerably more chill. "How nice of you to resurface. Get lost
in Underground Atlanta?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mulder said dryly.

Skinner glared as only he could, his deep brown eyes
snapping. "For your information, Fildster, Agent Thomas, Agent
Lowell and myself spent the afternoon digging Agents Mulder
and Scully out from under a few tons of rubble. It's my
understanding you gave the go-ahead to demolish that block."

"B-but I.... T-they had a legal permit, and the movie
crew was on a budget, and - and their lawyer.... They said they
had checked everything out, that there was no chance that your
agents were in there...."

"Can it, Fildster. We'll talk later. You're dismissed,"
Skinner said icily.

"B-but, the meeting...." Fildster pointed to the rapidly
filling conference room. He drew himself up to his full,
unimpressive height. "I have every right to be present for that
meeting. I *am* the Bureau Chief here."

A smile lit Skinner's eyes - a 'pucker up and kiss my ass'
smile that made Mulder very thankful it was not focused on him.
"That will be the subject of our discussion, I assure you. You're
dismissed," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

As the Bureau Chief withdrew to his office with his
dignity in shreds, Mike strolled up. "They're ready in the
conference room any time you are, sir."

Skinner preceded them into the briefing. On their way
in, Mike leaned close to Mulder's ear. "Glad I got to see that,"
he muttered. Mulder smiled as he took his seat.

Skinner began. "I want to thank all of you for your work
during the past twenty four hours. It's in part due to all of your
efforts that Agent Mulder is sitting here with us this afternoon.
His partner is being held for observation but also was relatively
unharmed. Good work, ladies and gentlemen." He took a
breath. "Now we get down to the business at hand - catching
this S.O.B. Agent Mulder, who drew up the profile of the killer,
has a theory on where he'll strike next. Agent Mulder?"

Mulder took in the fifteen or so faces around the
conference table. "The bomber's last note bothered me. It
bothered me when I first read it, and it has continued to do so.
I've had some spare time to think about it in the last twenty four
hours or so" - there were chuckles around the room - "and I think
I may now have a theory. Gatling made a reference in his note
to 'Satan's temple'. I tried to put myself in his place. If I were an
ill-educated bigot who considered black churches an
abomination before the Lord, what would I be inferring with the
words 'Satan's temple'?" He cast his eyes around the table
again, but saw only puzzled expressions. "I think he equates Dr.
Martin Luther King, Jr. - educated, black, man of the cloth - with
Satan. And by inference, 'Satan's temple' must therefore be the
Ebeneezer Baptist Church."

Murmuring filled the conference room. Mulder waited a
few moments for it to die down. "Gatling is looking for a high
body count. That led us to believe at first that he would strike on
Sunday morning, when churches have their highest attendance
during services. While that is still certainly a possibility, I would
like to advance an alternative. In working with Agent Thomas
and Matthew Johansen of the Journal-Constitution I learned that
a city-wide candlelight prayer service is scheduled for tonight at
midnight at the Ebeneezer Baptist Church - a prayer service
being held because of the string of firebombings. I believe that's
where Gatling's going to go for his body count."

There was silence in the room as the assembled agents
digested this information.

Skinner shoved his glasses up further on the bridge of
his nose."I think Agent Mulder's theory is feasible. It would
certainly seem to fit with this guy's profile, to prove his point by
firebombing a church with more than average significance for
black Christians. Especially during a service taking place for the
express reason of protesting his actions. Do we need to discuss
this further?" The AD looked around, but there seemed to be
concensus. "Very well. Good work, Mulder."

He nodded. "I feel strongly that this is where he'll hit,
and I have a plan in mind. However, we're going to have to be
very discreet. If he gets wind that we're there to stop him, he
can simply move to another church and blast it off the face of
the earth. It won't be as satisfying for him, but he'll do it."

"So what's your plan?" asked Skinner.

"First, we need to call the pastor - tell him what we
suspect and ask for his cooperation. Then we'll need a service
van - plumbing or electrical, preferably. Agents in plainclothes -
a couple as workmen in the van. One or both of those should be
from the bomb unit, since they'll be the ones actually getting
access to the church immediately. If the bomb has already been
planted, they can get right to work defusing it. Others can be
bystanders, joggers, passersby, all on the lookout for Gatling.
Maybe a couple of agents in clerical garb, in case he cuts it
close to the time of the service. Send someone now to check out
the church unobtrusively, to make sure that the explosives
haven't already been set, and to keep an eye on things until the
rest of us are in place. Then we just wait."

Skinner nodded. "All right. Remember, people, we don't
have to catch him in the act. Don't wait for him to set the bomb.
We have enough on Gatling to put him away for life right now.
Let's try to do this with as little risk to the church, the people at
the prayer service, and ourselves as possble."

Mulder handed Mike a folder. "Mike, could you - thanks.
"The photographs that Agent Thomas is passing around are of
our suspect, James Robert Gatling. When I saw him yesterday,
his hair was longer than in the photo, he hadn't shaved for
several days, and he had a moustache - one of those long,
droopy, Pancho Villa-type moustaches. That may or may not
still be true. Personally, I think he'll look the same as he did
yesterday. He's just not a GQ kind of guy." There was laughter
around the conference table. Mulder smiled briefly, then
sobered. "It's important that you know Gatling's state of mind.
He's desperate and irrational. He believes that he's on a
mission from God, one that has failed miserably so far. Don't
underestimate his motivation. Not only does he believe that his
life is staked on the success of this mission - he also believes
his *eternal* life is at stake. He may or may not be carrying
Agent Scully's or my service weapons. Bottom line - he is very,
very dangerous."

Skinner studied the faces in the room. They were ready.
"Agent Thomas will give you your assignments. Dismissed."

End of Chapter Eight.

Here it is - the last chapter. Comments or flames welcomed.

FAITH 9/9
By Suzanne Bickerstaffe
Ecksphile@aol.com
May 30, 1997

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One

Chapter Nine

Atlanta, Georgia
Saturday, March 15
11:07 PM

"Just how sure about this are you, Mulder?"

The agent returned Skinner's stare calmly. It was little
after eleven and the team had been in place for almost five
hours. The church had been searched twice and both times had
checked out clean. A sizeable crowd had gathered, waiting for
the doors to open. There had been no sign of Gatling, and the
AD was getting nervous. "He'll be here," Mulder replied with
certainty.

Skinner pulled Mulder closer to the light spilling from the
window of the cafe, about fifty yards from the church. They
were dressed as joggers, but the cold mist was rapidly soaking
them, adding physical discomfort to the unbearable tension of
waiting. "He doesn't usually cut it this close. He might have
smelled a trap, gone somewhere else."

"He's cut it close before - we know he did in the fifth
bombing, when he killed the caretaker. There may have been
others. No, I think he's waiting to mix in with the crowd going
into the church. He's going to want to leave as little opportunity
for the bomb to be discovered as possible. I think he's learned
something from his past failures." Mulder paused, thinking. "Is
Alvin on the door?"

"Yes. Agents Lowell and Kovacks are on the door,
purportedly to hand out the candles, but actually to screen
everyone coming in. Why?"

"Better get word to them. No one - absolutely no one -
goes in with a box, package or bag of any kind. While I don't
think Gatling would defer the 'honors', it's just remotely possible
he would give the bomb in some sort of package to an
unsuspecting person attending the service."

Skinner nodded. "All right, I'll tell them. They should be
starting to let people in soon." The official time of the doors
opening was still some thirty minutes distant. But the
thunderstorms which had been forecast rumbled threateningly
overhead, and with the chill, wet weather already upon them, the
attendees would probably be let in early. With a last glance at
Mulder, the AD jogged down the sidewalk toward the church.

Mulder stretched his aching muscles and adjusted his
sweatband to keep the drizzle from dripping from his hair into
his eyes. Then he set off at a leisurely pace around the three
block circuit he had run at least ten times since arriving at the
site. There were fewer empty parking spaces now, he noted
automatically. The prayer service would be well attended. He
turned left and continued his run, his eyes sweeping both sides
of the street for pedestrians and vehicles worthy of note. A
pickup caught his eye and as he bent to tighten his shoelaces,
he scanned the license plate. Then he began running again, a
little bit faster now, taking another left, and then another, finally
jogging past the Ebeneezer Baptist Church, where people were
finally entering in a steady stream.

Mulder looked around for one of the agents on the team.
Shit, he thought. We don't have to worry about Gatling spotting
anyone - *I* can't even find them. Panting, he slowed to a walk
with his hands on his hips, his attention focused on finding a
colleague to report to. He bumped into a tall black man in hat,
overcoat and clerical collar who had suddenly loomed in from of
him. Just as he was about to excuse himself -

"Hey, Spaceman, watch where you're goin'."

"Mike! Shit, I didn't recognize you."

"Well, I thought it woud be a good disguise, " he said,
his face splitting into a grin. "And besides, I already had the
costume."

"Look, Mike. I spotted Gatling's truck over on Turner -
an '87 black Chevy S-210 pickup, dent in the right front fender.
The license plate checks. Get word to everyone to look sharp,
will you? I'm going to cruise around and see if I can spot him."

"Will do. And y'all be careful, now. Hear me, Mulder?"

"I hear you," Mulder grinned. "I've picked up enough
cuts and bruises for one trip."

He and Mike took off in opposite directions. Mulder
strolled up one side of the street, his eyes darting through the
windows of the few establishments still open. He walked for a
couple of blocks, then crossed the street and headed back in the
direction of the church. It was then that he spotted Gatling.

The man was about thirty yards ahead of him, wearing a
loose old raincoat. His hands swung empty at his sides.
Furtively, his head turned to the left repeatedly, searching the
opposite side of the street. His profile was unmistakable. Still,
he wasn't carrying anything. Could he already have set the
bomb, Mulder worried. Could the bomb squad have missed it,
and now Gatling was just coming back to watch the fireworks?
His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Then he noted how the
sides of Gatling's raincoat bulged, flopping heavily against his
hips with each step, and he sighed in relief. No, Gatling had the
bomb with him, probably still unassembled.

Mulder lengthened his stride, hoping to catch up with the
man without alerting him. He wished now he had the radio he
had been offered. He had declined - he had enough of a
problem securing and hiding his weapon in his sweatpants. He
would just have to hope that someone on the team would notice
them. A flash of lightning illuminated the street, followed almost
instantly by the crash of thunder.

He had closed to within ten yards, the church still sixty
yards distant on their side of the street. Mulder glanced away
from Gatling for a few seconds, searching the crowd in front of
the church for the faces of other agents, hoping to signal them.
When his eyes turned back, Gatling had disappeared.

Mulder broke into a run and darted around the corner to
the right, his eyes scanning the dark, wet street for Gatling as
thunder rolled overhead. Suddenly, an arm snaked around his
neck and pulled him into a doorway. He felt the cold muzzle of
a gun pressed against his jaw.

"Well, whaddaya know. It's the Jew-boy."

"Give it up, Gatling."

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" He tightened his hold on
Mulder's throat. "Listen up, Jew-boy - I take orders only from the
Lord. He's told me what to do. If He wants me to do somethin'
different, He'll give me a sign. Now we're gonna take a little walk
over to the back of Satan's temple."

They had gone no more than a few paces in the now-
driving rain, when a deep voice rang out.

"Federal agent, Gatling. Put down your weapon."

Gatling spun, still holding Mulder around the neck, using
him as a shield. "I'll shoot this som'bitch if you don't back off,
nigger."

Mulder caught Mike's eye, and an almost imperciptible
nod passed between them. He waited to the count of three, then
twisted loose from Gatling's grasp, diving down and to the right,
rolling across the wet street and away from the bomber.

What happened next would be recorded on their reports,
in versions differing depending on the eyewitness. It would
probably be the subject of speculation for years to come. No
one really could say exactly what occurred, though everyone
had a theory.

Gatling raised his weapon, pointing it at Mike, who
dropped, rolled and came up firing. Suddenly there was
simultaneously a blinding flash and a roar and the crash of
thunder. Both Mulder and Mike were thrown some distance
away, their bodies tingling as they lay stunned on the pavement.

Skinner was fifty feet behind where Mike had been
standing. He had seen the black agent break into a run, and
assumed he might need help. "Jesus Christ!" he breathed. In
the center of the road, where Gatling had stood, was a smoking
crater. Buildings on both sides of the street were scorched,
windows now devoid of glass, siding and bricks littering the road.
He picked out first Mike, and then Mulder, laying some twenty
feet apart on the ground. Over his shoulder, he yelled, "Call an
ambulance, two men down!"

The AD ran over to Mike, the closer of the two. He had
been cut and bruised, and was twitching all over, but was
starting to come around. "Thomas, are you alright? What
happened?" He helped him to sit up.

"What happened? Are you kiddin'? The hand of God is
what happened!" He sat curled over, trembling in the downpour.
"Where's Mulder?"

"Over there. If you're all right, I'll go check out Mulder."
Skinner nodded at the other agents who came running up. Then
he moved over the where Mulder lay on the sidewalk. It looked
as if he had been flung into the side of the building. Although
unconscious, he too was twitching as if in some kind of seizure.
"We need the paramedics here!" he bellowed.

Mulder was breathing, had a strong if irregular pulse and
didn't appear to be bleeding too badly. Skinner took a raincoat
one of the other agents offered and covered him. Some of the
crowd waiting to get into the church, led by curiosity, had
appeared on the scene. Several opened their umbrellas to
shield the downed agents from the pouring rain.

Skinner left Mulder's side to move over to the crater in
the middle of the street. Shaking his head, he looked down into
it. It was some twelve feet across and close to three feet deep.
In the morning, they would have to get someone down there,
looking for remains. But from what the AD could see, there
wasn't much left of James Robert Gatling.

- - - - -

12:30 A.M.
Sunday, March 16

Skinner went to Scully's room as Mike and Mulder were
being attended in the Emergency Room. Hospital grapevines
being what they were, the AD was sure than Scully would hear
of Mulder's latest admission, and wanted the news to come from
him.

"I'm going down there."

"Agent Scully, that isn't necessary. They appear to be
all right. The doctors just want to hold them in the Step Down
Unit for twenty four hours so their cardiac status can be
monitored."

"*Cardiac* status? Why? What happened?"

Skinner pulled up a chair to the bedside and lowered
himself heavily into it. "*That* is a very good question. Mulder
and Thomas and myself were the closest to the action, and
even we can't agree." He sighed wearily. "Mulder was trailing
Gatling close to the church. He lost him for a second, and
Mulder being Mulder, dashed off looking for him. He walked
right into him." The AD noticed Scully stiffen. He was sure that
any lecture by him would be nothing compared to the earful that
Mulder would be getting from his partner about his rash
behavior. "Gatling grabbed him and stuck a gun in his face.
Fortunately, Thomas saw what was going on and challenged
him. Mulder and Thomas have worked together before.
Evidently they had some sort of pre-arranged signal. In any
case, Mulder got away from Gatling, and Mike fired."

"So Mike shot Gatling."

"Well...possibly."

"What do you mean, possibly? Surely an autopsy - "

"There won't be an autopsy, Agent Scully. Unless we
find body parts blown onto rooftops, there isn't enough left of
Gatling to put in an evidence bag, let alone a body bag."

She gaped at him. "Did you say 'blown onto rooftops'?
What the hell happened out there?"

"Depends on who you ask. Mulder said he didn't see too
much, since he was busy rolling around in the road, trying to get
away from Gatling. He assumes that Mike's bullet hit the
dynamite Gatling was carrying for his bomb, and boom! But
Agent Thomas tells a different story. There was a hell of a
thunderstorm going on. The city took several direct lightning
strikes - I've confirmed that with the weather service. Mike
swears that he might have hit Gatling, but he was aiming high,
so as not to mistakenly hit Mulder. Too high for his bullet to hit
the dynamite, which your partner said was in the pockets of
Gatling's raincoat. Thomas said...." Skinner stopped, a
bemused expression on his face. "He said that Gatling was
struck by a lightning bolt - cut down by 'the hand of God', as he
put it. And then the lightning in turn set off the explosives."

The AD shook his head. "I was about seventy five feet
away when it happened. The visibility was poor, what with the
rain and the darkness. But I could swear I saw Gatling reach
into his pocket just as Mike fired. The way I saw it, knowing he
was about to fail for the last time, Gatling might have set off the
explosives himself, hoping to take a few FBI agents with him.
Certainly, there was also a close lightning strike - that's why
Thomas and Mulder are in for observation. They have a few
electrical burns and some cardiac arrythmias consistent with a
close encounter with lightning. But as to what came first - the
bullet, the lightning or the explosion - I don't think we'll ever
know for sure." He paused. "Don't worry, Scully. Mulder's
okay. He had a strong pulse when I got to him. I don't think
there'll be any lasting effects from this. He's even already tried
to sign out AMA." She rolled her eyes and he laughed. "This
time I told the ER staff if he walked, they were to call the Bureau
and we'd take him into custody. But Mulder didn't fight it much -
I think he's tired."

"Thank you for coming to tell me." She frowned. "I
*told* him to be careful."

Skinner smiled grimly. "With Mulder, 'careful' is a
somewhat relative term."

"I suppose you're right," she replied, smiling herself.
"When will they be discharged?"

"Not before Monday morning. I can pick you up here in
the morning and take you back to your hotel. A day of rest
without having to worry about Mulder might do you some good.
How did the tests...?"

"Okay. Nothing new, sir. Although I wish you hadn't told
them about the cancer." Blue eyes met brown ones directly.

He shrugged. "When you and Mulder were brought in,
they ran a battery of tests, skull xrays amongst them. With no
next of kin around, I was approached by the doctors about it. I
told them I was aware of your condition. I gave them the name
of your oncologist because they asked for it. When medical
professionals are just trying to do their job with your health
uppermost in their minds, Scully, I don't feel that I breached any
confidences. Actually, they seemed a bit... surprised... that you
were still in the field."

"There's no reason I can't do my job, sir," she declared
firmly. "When there *is* reason, I'll be the first to ask for
medical leave."

"I realize that, Agent Scully," he replied softly. "That's
why you *are* still in the field." He stood and stretched, the
exhaustion of the last two days starting to catch up with him. "I'll
be back in the morning around ten, if that's all right by you."

"Yes, sir. And thank you for coming."

He nodded, his fatigue-ringed eyes warm with concern.
"Get some sleep, Dana." He held her eyes for a moment longer,
almost as if he wanted to say something more. Then abruptly he
broke his gaze and walked from the room.

- - - - -

Hartsfield International Airport
Monday, March 17
11:45 A.M.

They were the last to board. Mike's wife had driven
them from the hospital to the airport, her husband having been
forbidden by his doctors to drive for a week, much to his chagrin
and everyone else's relief. Now she waited in the loading zone
while Mike saw his friends off.

"Spaceman, it's always interestin' when y'all come down
here."

"Let's make it a little less interesting next time."

Mike chuckled. "It's a deal." Then he grew serious.
"Thanks for comin'. I think we may have saved some lives. I
know this is one of those things we're gonna agree to disagree
about, Mulder. But I *know* what happened that night."

His friend shrugged. "Who knows, you might even be
right."

"Well, I guess I'm makin' some headway, then. Maybe
you aren't a lost cause."

"Stranger things have happened, Mike."

"Yeah - but not many."

The last call for their flight was announced.

"Guess this is it," Mike said with a sigh. He hugged
Scully. "Dana, you take care of yourself, sugar. And if the
Spaceman gives you any trouble, you give me a call. Hell, even
if he doesn't give you any trouble, give me a call."

She smiled fondly at the black agent. "I will, Mike.
Thanks for everything."

"Spaceman...." The two men embraced. "You think
about everything we talked about, y'hear? And you know where
to find me if you need me."

"Thanks, Mike." A look passed between the two that
Scully couldn't quite categorize.. Mulder picked up their bags.
"Better get on board, I guess. Goodbye, buddy."

They had reached the jetway when Mike's voice boomed
out.

"Keep the faith, baby!"

Mulder turned, then with a smile, nodded and waved.

The flight was comparatively empty, and they had the
luxury of a vacant middle seat in their section, which was also
an emergency exit. Mulder stretched out his long legs, grateful
for the extra room. He still ached all over and his stitches were
beginning to itch. His hand took up its traditional 'takeoff
position' - closed over Scully's - as the plane began to hurtle
down the runway.

Once airborne, they put up the armrests between them
and reclined their seats. Scully picked up his hand and peeked
under the dressings, assuring herself that all was healing
normally. Instead of freeing his hand, she laced her fingers
through his and lay back against the headrest with her eyes
closed. He knew that she had something on her mind, and he
waited patiently for her to speak.

"It was close, wasn't it?" she asked quietly.

"It was real close," Mulder grimly agreed. "Ironically, the
explosion saved our lives. If it hadn't torn some holes in the
walls of that refrigeration unit, we would have been dead by the
time they found us."

She was silent for so long he thought she had fallen
asleep. He was on the verge of doing so himself when her voice
startled him into wakefulness.

Her tone was tentative, but her gaze direct. "Mulder, do
you remember Clyde Bruckman?"

He chuckled wryly. "How could I forget? My sex life
underwent an abrupt and drastic change."

Softly, she laughed. "In your dreams. You don't have a
sex life."

"That's just one of the many things I love about you,
Scully - your devastating bluntness. Anyway, yes, I remember
Clyde Bruckman. Why do you ask?"

"Well, when it was my turn to babysit him, after we had
played gin until we were bored stiff, he started... I don't know...
tempting me, hinting around, sort of intrigued that I wasn't
badgering him for his 'special knowledge'."

"You mean his gift for predicting how and when people
would die?"

She hesitated. "Yeah. I had come so close... after my
abduction. I wasn't ready to deal with it, didn't want to think
about it. Finally, I just... I guess my curiosity got the better of
me. I asked him how I would die. Do you know what he said?"

Mulder's throat tightened so much he could hardly get
the words out. Not sure he wanted to, not sure he was ready to
hear what the tragic prognosticator had to say about his partner.
He pulled Scully closer. "No, what?" he finally managed to
choke out.

"I asked him how I would die, and... and he got this...
this expression on his face, a sort of a smile. It was almost
beatific, Mulder. And he said... 'You *don't*'."

His throat constricted so much he couldn't speak, but his
heart leapt. Surely Bruckman wouldn't have lied...? But how...?
His thoughts went back to his conversation with Mike and his
friend's absolute certainty that Scully would find her truth, her
miracle.

"I've been thinking a lot about that lately, Mulder. Since
finding out... about the cancer. I mean, Bruckman was right
about so many things. Do you think he was lying to me, that at
the last minute maybe he couldn't bear to tell me?"

Mulder swallowed hard, getting his emotions in check.
"I honestly don't think he would lie about that, Scully. Other
things, maybe, but not that. Ripoff artists and charlatans like the
Stupendous Yappi are one thing. People who have... gifts... like
Bruckman had.... Whatever else they might lie about, they take
a certain pride in that gift, they don't lie about it. That gift is
surrounded by a kind of higher integrity, if you will, held
inviolate. No, he wouldn't lie to you about that."

"But what do you think he meant?"

"I don't know."

There was a long pause. "There's no scientific
explanation for his gift, Mulder," she said hesitantly.

"No, you're absolutely right about that. There's no
scientific explanation." He held her tight, his body tense, waiting
to hear her next words. Would she follow form and dismiss this
ray of hope, just because it didn't have the imprimatur of
science? Please, just accept this, Scully, he thought. Don't
question it, just accept it. We need this....

"Mulder, I want to believe what he said." Her voice was
small, almost apologetic.

He breathed out slowly, the tension leaving him. At last.
The final and biggest wall between them was cracking. They
might have a chance after all. "Against all odds, Bruckman was
always right, wasn't he?"

"As far as when we were with him, yes, he was always
correct," she agreed.

Mulder's voice was low, rich. soft. "I can't even begin to
explain Bruckman's gift, Scully. I wouldn't even try. Let's just
have faith in what he said. Not question it or analyse it. Let's
just believe he was right. I want to believe that, more than
anything else." His voice caught and he ended in a hoarse
whisper as he buried his face in her hair.

Her voice, too, was hushed. "Me, too, Mulder."

End of Faith

-- End --